


we will, we will (rock you)

by Quilly



Series: to go romancing [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: A Knight's Tale AU, Background Newt/Anathema, Canon-Typical Violence, Human AU, Inspired by A Knight's Tale (2001), Jousting, Multi, inaccurate history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: When his mentor knight dies, Crowley finally gets his shot at the joust. So long as the nobles don't find out he's a peasant, it should work out just fine.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: to go romancing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597387
Comments: 57
Kudos: 130
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the Knight's Tale AU! Should still be enjoyable if you've never seen the film, but this does diverge a bit from the plot of the movie (in very small ways). Expect a daily posting schedule!
> 
> Title from the opening Queen song of the film, of course!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Just as a note, there is a time skip after the first scene break, sorry I couldn't find a more elegant way to illustrate that. Leaned a bit too hard into the movie and didn't realize how vague that was. Sorry!)

The murky water of the Channel slapped against the sides of the ferry as a young boy called Crawly fidgeted on the sodden wooden bench. It was chilly, it being early fall and nighttime and all, but the ferryman had no coat to offer the wee lad, so he harrumphed sympathetically as he hauled the ferry along the chain. Crawly came alone with the fee for crossing clutched tight in his grubby fist, his amber eyes looking huge in his skinny face and a bounce in his limbs as he scanned the dark horizon, waiting for land.

“Where’re you off to, then, young master?” the ferryman asked gruffly, and Crawly jumped, almost toppling into the water.

“Apprenticeship,” the boy replied. “I’m to be a squire.”

More like he was going to be some minor lord’s stable boy, the ferryman thought, but grunted supportively. “Mind you keep yourself out of trouble, young master, them as what lives on the continent ain’t as sensible as us English folk.”

The boy nodded and said no more, but the ferryman would have to be thick to miss the way Crawly’s eyes grew brighter with some internal fire the closer they got to the shore.

“Change the stars,” the boy mumbled to himself periodically, as if chanting a prayer. Odd saying, that. The ferryman hadn’t the foggiest what it meant. As Crawly scampered up to the dock once the ferry pulled in, the ferryman thought he should say something wise and important, but the self-assured way Crawly strode as he went left the ferryman alone before he could think of anything.

The jousting tournament in Calais was popular, but this particular tourney was more of an off-season amusement for knights either too early or too late into their careers, and it was here that Crawly expected to find one man in particular. Not a spectacular knight, perhaps, but a man who did fairly well in London’s post-season celebration and more importantly had taken the time to give a bony redheaded urchin a hot meal and a promise of employment, if he could make it to this tourney. An older, wiser person would probably have told Crawly to not waste his time on a washed-up drunk’s promises, but there wasn’t an older, wiser person, just a collection of fellow urchins scraping by in London’s muddy alleyways.

Sir Shadwell’s current squire spotted him first, edging up on their cart as they made their way to check in. The squire tugged on his master’s sleeve as Crawly came abreast of them. Sir Shadwell belched as he looked round, then squinted at Crawly, who held his chin high like he’d seen the nobles do when he could catch glimpses of them in the jousting arena.

“If you’re looking for alms, boy, the church is that way,” Sir Shadwell said, swaying slightly on his feet. Crawly felt his ears heat up, but reasoned he’d come too far to be defeated by a hazy memory now.

“I’m Crawly, sir,” Crawly said. “You’re the man as what told me he’d give me a job if I made it here, sir.”

“Crawly,” Sir Shadwell mumbled. “Awful name, that. Said I’d give you a job, did I?”

“Yes, sir,” Crawly nodded vigorously. “In London, sir, not a month past.”

“London,” Sir Shadwell said to himself, then rubbed his scruffy chin. “That…that sounds familiar, now you mention it.” Crawly held his breath as Sir Shadwell deliberated, not making eye contact with the squire and other retainers Sir Shadwell kept in his retinue. Eventually, Sir Shadwell looked down at Crawly and nodded decisively. “Well, whether I said it or not, you’re here, and I need a clever lad to help out for this tourney. If you don’t muck it up, I’ll think about keeping you on. How does that sound?”

It wasn’t exactly what Crawly was hoping for, but he’d take what he could get. “It sounds like a deal to me, sir.”

“Crawly, you said your name was?” Sir Shadwell asked, and Crawly nodded. “That won’t do. Man needs a proper name when he enters the world. I’ll call you Crowley. Sounds better.”

“Crowley,” the boy repeated to himself, and nodded decisively. “Much better, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Sir Shadwell gave him a lopsided grin, and Crowley returned it. “At least you know how to mind your manners. Come along, Crowley, and we’ll show you the world.”

Sir Shadwell belched again following this grand statement, but Crowley, freshly christened and feeling like a whole new person, took it to heart and followed.

.

Sir Shadwell had been doing decently, all things considered. Despite his obvious illness, he hadn’t fallen off the horse, and had managed to muscle-memory his way into a position where all he needed to do was stay upright to win this backwater tourney. Perhaps that was why, when Crowley went to rouse him from his short break, the worst had happened and Sir Shadwell had clearly, undeniably died in those few moments of respite. Of course the universe would see fit to do this to him right on the cusp of getting a bite to eat, Crowley thought darkly.

“He has to be in the lists in two minutes,” Brian panted, running up with Wensleydale on his heels. Both their faces scrunched in disgust. “What’s that smell?”

“Sir Shadwell’s final gift,” Crowley deadpanned. “He’s dead.”

“Dead?” Wensleydale cried. “Surely not—”

“We haven’t eaten in three days, he’s one tilt away from victory, and he dies now?” Brian howled. Crowley could see Adam with the horse back at the arena, glancing their way as he talked with a herald.

“Strip him,” Crowley said. “I’ll do the last turn, and then we don’t starve, at least. We’ll get him buried after.”

“But—actually, Crowley, jousting is just for titled nobility, and you aren’t one of those,” Wensleydale protested as Brian immediately jumped in to help.

“Nobility or not, we can all die in our own filth just the same,” Crowley grunted as he removed the chest plate. “They’ll never know the difference. Do you want to eat or not?”

Even ignoring the faint stench of dysentery clinging to the armor, Crowley felt a rush of excitement as he hauled himself into the saddle. It came three decades and change late, but this was closer to what Crowley had envisioned when he set off from London to be a squire. The rush of adrenaline, the roar of the crowd, the anticipation, the spectacle. Crowley took the lance and it felt right in his hand.

In short: Crowley was not knocked off his horse, though he had almost not gotten his lance into position in time and the other knight’s blow had dented the helmet in significantly. All the better—he couldn’t remove the cursed thing, so “Sir Shadwell” accepted his prize without incident.

Later, next to a shallow grave, the priest’s fee paid and still twenty silver left over, Crowley and the boys who made up the rest of Sir Shadwell’s retinue looked awkwardly at each other.

“Twenty silver means five each,” Crowley said, dividing up the coin. “Cheers, lads.”

Brian and Wensleydale accepted their share with smiles. Adam looked at his and frowned.

“We could do this,” Adam said. Crowley’s skin prickled in alarm.

“Do what?” Brian asked, pausing mid-fantasy about the tavern food he was going to buy with his portion.

“This,” Adam indicated the cart and horse, full of Sir Shadwell’s lancing equipment. “Joust. Be champions.”

“Actually, we couldn’t,” Wensleydale sighed, rolling his eyes. “We’re not—”

“Nobility’s just a lie rich people told to make other people think they’re important,” Adam argued. “Not like another lie will make much of a difference. And I thought Crowley looked awfully natural on a horse, didn’t you?”

“Hang on,” Crowley said weakly, but Adam talked over him.

“We do this, and we won’t be hungry again,” Adam said. “Glory and riches, can you imagine it?”

“That kind of thinking gets men killed,” Crowley said sternly. “The only place glory will take you is straight to the gallows.”

“But you always said you followed Sir Shadwell to be a knight, Crowley,” Adam said, with that wide-eyed innocence he was far too old to wield at one-and-twenty, but blast him if it wasn’t wearing at Crowley’s resolve. “Well, here’s our chance. We have the equipment, the silver for what we lack, and nothing else to lose.”

“Actually, they could kill us,” Wensleydale interjected. “Or at least put us in the stocks. Impersonating above your station is—”

“It’ll work so long as we don’t get caught,” Adam fired back. “But we could—we could change our stars, if we do this. Be a lot better way to spend the next few months than anything else you lot had planned, and a better way to die than failing bowels any day.”

Crowley was gobsmacked. He was also more than a little taken with the old childish fantasy of being a knight—tilting against worthy opponents, winning big tournaments, screaming fans chanting his name…

“Crowley’s on board,” Adam said smugly, and Crowley opened his mouth to retort but found Adam was entirely correct. He sighed.

“I am,” he said grudgingly. “Being a knight…’s all I wanted. I’m not forcing anybody else in with me, but if I could get a shot at a bigger tournament—Rouen, maybe—that’d be dream enough for me.”

Brian and Wensleydale looked at each other.

“If Crowley thinks it’s alright,” Brian shrugged, and Wensleydale sighed.

“This is a bad idea, actually,” he mumbled, but handed Adam back four of his coins when asked and gave Crowley a bashful smile. Crowley himself could hardly believe they were actually going to make it happen.

This was it—the stars were going to change. Crowley could already feel it happening. There was a month or so until Rouen; that gave them a month to prepare, to practice, and to get there.

And maybe to get a comb through his hair, Crowley grimaced as he observed the matted red mess tumbling down his shoulders in a knotted braid. Couldn’t very well be a nobleman with hair looking like that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some fun things in this chapter, including the introduction of Newton Pulsifer and our romantic leads finally meeting!

One month, lots of training, a half-drowning, and a haircut that took a full day later, Crowley and the boys were setting a good pace to the next tournament. The weather was nice, the horse was in good health, and Crowley’s hair hadn’t looked this good in years, falling past his shoulders in crimson waves. Not that Crowley liked to brag (he did), but sod everyone else, his hair was magnificent, when he could afford to take care of it. Once he started making real money, he was going to invest some serious coin in hair maintenance.

His train of thought was interrupted by the slap of bare feet against the dirt coming up behind them, and then shattered when Crowley glanced over his shoulder. He nearly tripped and faceplanted in shock.

“Morning,” the naked man said, his face one of resigned mortification. He patted the horse’s neck as he passed, and Crowley was entirely too baffled to do much more than sputter.

“Sir?” Adam called, and the man stopped, turning back. “Are you alright?”

“Well,” the man said, “I’m alive, I suppose. It could be worse.”

“Were you robbed?” Brian asked with great interest. Wensleydale was busy covering his eyes and tutting.

“Er…sort of,” the man flushed. Crowley had the great misfortune of knowing the man turned red all the way down to his chest. “I don’t have the best luck.”

“I’d say not,” Crowley snorted. “Who are you, stranger?”

“Newton,” the man said. “Newton Pulsifer. I’m a scribe by trade.”

“Scribe?” Brian puzzled.

“You know, someone who records things,” Newton explained. “I can make up any document you’d like—personal history, edicts, warrants, patents of nobility, things like that.”

Crowley’s ears pricked, and he glanced at Adam, who was glancing back at him. Brian and Wensleydale were, as well. They hadn’t thought about that bit of the deception.

“Well, if you gentlemen would excuse me,” Newton said politely, “it’s still a bit of a ways to the next village, by this road.”

“Hold on,” Crowley said, “let me make sure I’ve got this right—you said you could do patents of nobility?”

“I did,” Newton nodded, his face absolutely artless. “I’m terribly sorry, who are you? I forgot to ask.”

“I’m—er—” Crowley cleared his throat. He was botching this; first lie of the road, and he couldn’t even remember his name off the top of his head. Idiot. “Sir Anthony Antonio of Lichtenstein,” he said, hoping the imperious tone would cover up his slip. “These are my attendants.”

“Oh,” Newton said, and his expression was doubtful, if not suspicious. “Bit obvious that your name’s made up, isn’t it? Anthony Antonio?”

Whatever his skill at impromptu lying, Crowley’s speed with a dagger was at least enough to send a naked man sprawling into the meadow on the side of the road, eyes wide and fearful as Crowley threatened him with the pointy end. “I reckon it’s authentic enough to keep your tongue in your head, isn’t it?” Crowley growled, and Newton nodded far more than necessary. “Charming. Hope you find some clothes, Newt, but we’d best be on our way.”

“Right,” Newton said shakily, and Crowley returned to his party. Adam was grinning openly at him, and Wensleydale, still refusing to look in Newton’s direction, was shaking his head with pursed lips. “You’re—you’re not going to Rouen, by any chance, are you?”

“What if we are?” Brian called as they started to walk past. “Our business, not yours, innit?”

“Well—it’s just—they’re limiting the field at Rouen,” Newton said, and Crowley stopped dead. “They’re making the entrants prove nobility up to four generations on either side.”

“So?” Brian said, and Adam hit him. Crowley turned around and stalked back towards Newton, who cowered and scuttled backwards as Crowley sat on his heels in front of him again.

“Why would you tell us that?” Crowley asked.

“Well, horse, lances, armor—it’s a bit obvious what you’re doing,” Newton said, flicking his eyes towards their cart. “Not my business if a lot of peasants want to joust, I think the nobility-only rule is a bit silly anyway, but it seems like it would be helpful for you to know beforehand what you’re walking into.”

“It is, at that,” Crowley muttered. “Listen, Newt, we’ve got some extra clothes lying around, between the four of us. If we give you clothes, food, and some wine, do you reckon you could whip up some convincing patents of nobility for us?”

Newton stared at him. “I’d be imprisoned for sure if it was found out what I did,” he said slowly. Crowley held eye contact, then shrugged, standing and dusting off his trousers.

“Suit yourself,” he said, and walked away adjusting his sleeves. He made it four steps before he heard Newton scrambling to his feet.

“I suppose that shouldn’t be too hard to do,” Newton said, “in exchange for clothes, I mean. It’s been a bit…I mean, being naked isn’t—yeah, sounds like a deal to me, Sir Anthony.”

“There you go, Newt, you’re getting it already,” Crowley said, baring his teeth in a smile over his shoulder. “Wensley, dig out those extra clothes and stop covering your eyes, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Actually, I haven’t seen many people naked before at all, really,” Wensleydale mumbled as he fished around in the cart. The sun beat down overhead on the road to Rouen as Crowley’s band, now with the addition of Newton, continued to make their way along it.

.

“Give me the patents,” Adam said as they entered Rouen.

“Why?” Newt asked, clutching his work to his chest. It had taken him the better part of a day to complete them, and that was after gathering the necessary supplies.

“Because I’ll make a better herald than you,” Adam said. “Unless you really want to do it?”

“No,” Newt said hurriedly, turning green. “I—no.” Adam smiled impishly at him, and Crowley sighed.

“I don’t remember agreeing to you being my herald,” Crowley said, though his protest was mostly token.

“Right, because anyone else here is going to do it,” Adam rolled his eyes. “I’ll get you checked in, m’lord, don’t you worry.” With a jaunty, mocking little bow, Adam scurried off.

“Are you any good at taking care of horses, Newt?” Crowley asked, watching Adam’s curly head bob through the crowd for as long as he could. “Could use the help.”

“Er,” Newt said, eyeing the horse nervously. “I’m—I’m alright. If you’re sure you want my help.”

“Always useful to have somebody who can read and write around,” Crowley said, lowering his voice to a more menacing timber. “We can figure it out along the way, but I’m not too keen on letting you out of my sight, Pulsifer.” Crowley fixed him with his best glare, and was pleased to see Newt turn even more sickly and shiver. “So long as you keep your mouth shut, you’ll get a share in what we win and keep your skin. Sound fair?”

Newt nodded frantically.

“Good,” Crowley said, and looked to Wensleydale and Brian. “Keep an eye on him. I’m going to check out the city.”

With that, Crowley swung up on his horse and set off into the crowd. Rouen was the biggest place he’d been in for a long time. It smelled like a bunch of people living on top of each other, but he could also smell food stalls and woodsmoke, and heard buskers playing various instruments. Crowley hummed along with some familiar tunes, guiding his horse in an aimless pattern through the streets. He might’ve started going down streets a little too fine for him, but all such thoughts of backtracking to the arena were blown clear from his head when his eyes fell on the most beautiful creature on God’s green earth.

He was a plump thing, head graced with a halo of white-gold curls and rosy cheeks, dressed in light-colored brocade that complimented his sunny-sea eyes. He clutched a book to his chest in well-made hands, and in the few seconds of prolonged eye contact between strangers, Crowley saw the man’s face cycle from surprise to bashfulness. A truly lovely flush spread over his cheeks, and he gave a little bob of a bow of acknowledgement in his direction before hurrying down the street.

Crowley followed without thinking, without remembering he was on a horse and not on his own legs, and every so often the man would look over his shoulder and see Crowley and hurriedly look forward again. Crowley had a vague inclination that he might be scaring the poor fellow.

“Would you speak to me?” Crowley asked once he was close enough. The man startled so hard he fumbled his book, and looked up at Crowley with what looked like exasperated embarrassment.

“And what would you have me say?” the man snipped, though something in Crowley’s face must have amused him, because there was the hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Shall I extoll the virtues of knights who scare the wits out of respectable folk by hunting them down in the street?”

“I—” Crowley swallowed, feeling his tongue swell in his mouth, oh dear. “It—well—um—”

“She’s quite an aged thing, isn’t she?” the man noted, tentatively patting the horse’s neck as he walked alongside it. “Looks more fit to be put to pasture than ridden. Surely she isn’t your jousting mount?”

“Some of us must make do with what we can find,” Crowley frowned, his tongue untangling. The man was definitely smiling now, though the amused glance shot his way gave him the impression of being laughed at.

“Well said,” the man nodded, and patted the horse again. Crowley barely noticed as they turned a corner, as the sounds of the cobblestones under hooves began to echo much more loudly. “Surely you didn’t come all this way to harass me personally, good sir. I assume you’re in town for the joust, but is this all that draws you?”

“Mostly,” Crowley said, leaning out of his saddle some and putting on his best smile. “And the view.” Oh, he must not have done it right, the man turned beet-red and looked away from him quickly. “Will you—do you attend the joust?”

“What in God’s name are you doing?” another voice shouted, and Crowley looked up with annoyance, only to find the purple-faced man going into apoplectic shock had the right of it—he had ridden his horse right into a library of some kind.

“Oh,” Crowley said, taking in the full ridiculousness of his situation. “Oh. Um.”

A ring of librarians, he assumed, came to back him and his horse out of the library, and Crowley stalled, looking over them to the sweet-faced man he had unwittingly desecrated public property for.

“Don’t suppose I could have your name, sir?” Crowley called as he was herded back towards the door.

“I am not sure my name would do you much good, Sir Hunter,” the man replied, and Lord Almighty, even from this distance Crowley could see the twinkle in his eyes and it was gorgeous, full of joy rather than mean-spiritedness.

“Agree to disagree,” Crowley managed to throw out, before he himself was thrown out of the library. He rode back to the arena with haste, sure his ears were the same color as his hair and hoping his cheeks had the good sense to keep his embarrassment and wonder from showing on them.

.

Crowley thought about the fair man for the rest of the day, well into the night. If the others had a sense of his distraction, Crowley didn’t much care; he caught whiffs of the lads teasing Newt, and of Newt offering some insight into higher social circles, but Crowley’s mind was tracing the cupid’s bow of the man’s mouth over and over, recreating his image to treasure. Not just pretty, but a scholar, as well—smart, obviously, but not puffed up about it. He clearly had wits, at least, and knew well how to use them. Crowley liked that in a person.

“Sir Anthony!” someone shouted directly in his ear, and Crowley squawked, bowling back over the bench onto the floor. There was the sound of laughter around him in the tavern, and Crowley scowled up at Adam, who was looking at him with a smirk.

“Have you come back to us at last, sir?” Adam asked innocently, and Crowley sat up far enough to cuff his ear. Adam took his punishment with his expression intact as Crowley hauled himself back into his seat. “What’s got you off in dreamland, then?”

“Well, first big joust tomorrow, yeah?” Brian said somehow around a packed-full mouth of food. “I suspect he’s nervous.”

“I’m not nervous, and it’s not my first joust,” Crowley said grimly, glowering down at the table. “Sir Anthony Antonio’s a master jouster. Broken thousands of lances. Cut his teeth on them as a babe.”

“Splintery way to go about it,” Newt shivered.

“Actually, if it was sanded properly, wood might make a nice chewing thing for a baby with growing teeth,” Wensleydale said thoughtfully.

“Regardless, I don’t think that’s what’s got you in a funk, milord,” Adam said, leaning his head on his fist. “Pretty face, perhaps?”

“None of your business,” Crowley snarled, and Adam’s smile prompted Brian and Wensleydale to “woo” at him and Newt to hide a smile in his beer mug. “I’m going to bed. Need to be rested for tomorrow.”

“Don’t go hogging all the blankets, we all have to share,” Wensleydale called after him as Crowley got up from the table, grabbed a hunk of bread from Brian’s charger, and stalked out in ill temper. He wasn’t nervous. Ridiculous notion. Why would he be nervous? It was just a joust. He’d gone through the motions thousands of times. Only thing different would be hundreds of screaming fans and an actual knight aiming for his chest rather than a training dummy. Nothing at all to be worried about.

Crowley stared up at the canopy of the tent, waiting for the others to come in, and did his best to calm the pounding, rushing blood in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen I will not apologize for the name Anthony Antonio because it's hilarious, and he's from Lichtenstein in honor of the film, where Heath Ledger's character's alias is Ulrich von Lichtenstein.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story moves along! The movie has the most perfect way to naturally introduce the "angel" nickname, no shoehorning required. Hope it continues to please! (EDIT: If you are reading this after Chapter Five has been posted, there is a slight edit including the rules of the joust according to the film; it's very small, and there is a reminder on what they are in the author's note at the beginning of Chapter Five, but thought I would make a note here letting people know in case they're rereading.)

The next morning, Crowley was adjusting his gauntlets as the lads prepared his horse in the lists when he happened to glance at the balcony where the nobility sat and saw a distinctive pale head of fluffy hair, and his throat closed up.

“What’re you staring at?” Adam asked, popping up at Crowley’s elbow, and Crowley flinched.

“Nothing!” he growled. “How are you always underfoot these days?”

“Talent,” Adam said. “I’ve got your intro figured out, I think you’ll like it.”

“Just don’t make it stupid,” Crowley said, and looked over his shoulder. “Horse ready?”

“As she’ll ever be,” Brian said, patting her neck. “Do us a favor and knock someone off theirs, would you? Don’t know how much of this she can take.”

“I’ll do my best,” Crowley said wryly, and hauled himself into the saddle. He had to be quick; the first tilt would be starting soon.

He trotted his horse out and made his way to stand under the balcony where his beautiful quarry sat, and Crowley tossed his hair back as he made eye contact with him. To his great pleasure, the man looked pleased to see him, leaning forward in his seat.

“Ah, Sir Hunter! I see you’ve returned to finish the job,” the man said, his voice full of mirth and gentle teasing.

“My only target was your name, good sir,” Crowley replied, delivering the line he’d practiced half the night during his sleepless reverie. “Or perhaps angels have no names, only beautiful faces.”

The man—his angel—flushed deeply and sat back, but he was smiling. As he did, Crowley took note of the man sitting next to his angel, a tall, broad specimen with dark hair and an unimpressed expression.

“And who might you be?” that particular man asked, and Crowley felt his eyes narrow.

“Er—I’m—”

“You’ve forgotten?” the man said lightly, and the nobility around him chuckled (not, Crowley did not fail to note, his angel, who looked faintly embarrassed).

“Sir Anthony,” Crowley said tightly. “Anthony Antonio. Of Lichtenstein.”

“Good lord, with a name like that, I’m not sure how you’d forget,” the man sneered. “Creative woman, your mother?”

Crowley fumed, unable to think of a comeback that wouldn’t just be filthy swearing. He wanted to show his angel he had _some_ manners, of course—teasing between the two of them was one thing, but Crowley had the distinct impression he’d been thrust into a ring where he had no idea of the rules of engagement. He wished now that he’d been listening to Newt’s lecture about high society the night before.

“And, ah, your armor, sir,” the man continued, his stupid blocky handsome face poised in a grin.

Crowley shifted. It was the same armor Sir Shadwell had always worn, and he’d never heard any comments about it before. “What about it?”

“How adorable of you, to trot out in repurposed cookware,” the man smiled. “Or—sorry, that’s not actual armor, is it? It’s hard to tell, with that bucket you’re about to put on your head.”

Crowley flexed his fingers on his helmet, which he noticed was indeed unfortunately bucket-shaped, and felt his cheeks defy his wishes and begin to heat with humiliation. He couldn’t bear to glance at his angel as he gave his tormentor a glare and rode back to his men. Adam, for once, didn’t press the issue, though Crowley did notice Adam shooting some curious looks at the stands and back at Crowley.

The first knight Crowley was to face as Sir Anthony was a woman of great stature, a Sir Francis McDormand, who seemed to be new to the scene this year as well, from the gossip Newt had picked up. “She’s already got quite the reputation,” Newt explained as Crowley studied his opponent and tied back his hair. “Seems she competed in a tournament not far from here and swept the whole thing.”

“Bully for her,” Crowley said, grimacing as he put his helmet on. “Lance.”

He rode to the starting position, watching Sir Francis take her own position, and waited, entire body thrumming, for the heralds to make their introductions. Sir Francis’ herald went first, and did the normal small listing of accomplishments and name, and the applause was polite. Then Adam trotted up, throwing a wink over his shoulder to Crowley, and cleared his throat.

“My lords,” he said, “my ladies.” He made a bow, which the nobility acknowledged. Then Adam smiled, and Crowley had a split second to feel nervous before Adam opened his mouth. “And the rest of you lot here _not_ sitting on a cushion!” He turned back to the common folk, who went nuts at being addressed for possibly the first time in history by a knight’s herald.

“Today, you find yourselves under equal blessings,” Adam said, strutting as his voice carried, “for today, I have the honor—nay, the pleasure—of introducing to you all a knight descended from the noblest, bravest stock in all of Europe, a knight so honorable, he begged me to not list his greatest accomplishments for fear of shaming his competition, but I find myself unable to hold my tongue.”

Crowley cringed inwardly. He always knew he might strangle Adam with his bare hands one day, he thought severely. Luckily for them all, the crowd was spellbound, even the arena staff, who had the extreme boredom born from dealing with large quantities of people far too often for their liking.

“I first met him in a church in Germany, serving penance for the crimes of a starving orphan, who had stolen only a crust of bread, and to whom my lord knight gave all the earthly riches on his person,” Adam said, and Crowley flushed at this extravagant retelling of how he and Sir Shadwell picked the lads up off the street in much the same way Crowley himself was.

“He amazed me further in Rome,” Adam continued, “where he fended off the advances of countless uncouth and unworthy suitors from a famous beauty, giving her enough time to see the return of her true love from the Crusades and so saving her from a lifetime of misery in the hands of those who would not appreciate such a jewel.” Well, alright, now they were really throwing all pretense of honesty to the wind, Crowley thought.

“And of course, there is the time in Greece, where he spent a year in silent piety, praying to the Lord God and begging His forgiveness for all the sin of the world, until the Pope himself had to come entreat him to leave off his praying before he starved to death,” Adam said, his voice choked with emotion, and Crowley had never been so happy for the existence of things with which to cover his face. “And with that, I present to you all the savior of the innocent, the protector of the truest hearts, the seeker of salvation, Sir Anthony Antonio!”

Following this, the crowd exploded with cheers, and Crowley waved an awkward gauntlet at the cheers thrown his way. That was impressive, he had to admit, but there would be _words_ later about getting carried away. What would he do now, if he failed to win this match? He happened to glance towards his angel and was struck by the starry-eyed expression on his face.

Well. It wouldn’t do to disappoint.

.

“Really, though, just because he has a silver-tongued herald doesn’t mean he’s worthy of notice,” Gabriel scoffed, and Aziraphale kept his tiny sigh to himself. He thought the performance was quite lovely, really, though he wasn’t quite certain of the validity of some of the herald’s claims. Sir Anthony Antonio didn’t seem like the overly religious type to him, but their acquaintance had been so brief, and Aziraphale had to admit he had been a bit distracted by Sir Anthony’s devilish smile and lustrous hair.

“I thought it was nice,” Aziraphale said, keeping his voice small and neutral. He felt Gabriel glance at him and huff.

“Some of these poor country knights are little better than peasants,” Gabriel continued. “I thought they were limiting the field here, not throwing open the doors.” He shifted. “Since when do you attend these, Aziraphale?”

“Oh, I thought I’d get a sense for it, I know you’re jousting this afternoon,” Aziraphale said hurriedly. Gabriel was not his fiancé, not in the most technical and legal of senses, but…well. There were expectations, had been for quite some time. And certainly, Aziraphale had no desire to incur another explanation of the rules of the joust, which Gabriel had droned on and on about often enough that he knew them by heart, even if sometimes he failed to understand what exactly had happened on the pitch—one point was awarded for breaking a lance off on an opponent’s chestplate, two points for breaking a lance against a helmet, and three points for unhorsing a knight entirely. Knowing these things did not make the joust more interesting, nor did they make Gabriel more interesting, frankly. But now was not the time to dwell on such things.

Aziraphale coughed, searched for a subject change. “Sir Francis is a new face as well, I gather.”

“Yes,” Gabriel mused, and Aziraphale relaxed when it seemed the subject had been successfully changed. He wished Anathema were here, he couldn’t imagine what was keeping her. “This match should be amusing, at least. It’ll be hilarious when Sir Anthony’s armor falls to bits the second a strong breeze touches it.” Gabriel laughed, and at his side his valet Sandalphon guffawed, and Aziraphale exhaled a tiny sigh through his nose and resolved to watch the match. Yes, perhaps Sir Anthony’s armor was a bit dingy, but it was refreshing to meet a knight who didn’t stand so much upon ceremony. The man had followed him into a library on a horse, of all things. Aziraphale spared a smile for the memory. And such a strange request! Most people didn’t want Aziraphale to start speaking for fear he’d never shut up again (Anathema excluded, of course, she could natter on just as well as he could). Sir Anthony had seemed to hang on his every word.

Aziraphale was no stranger to folk attempting to smarm their way into his good graces, but his encounter the day before hadn’t felt like that at all. He watched, heart in his throat, as the first tilt of the match began.

Sir Anthony and Sir Francis both seemed to land solid hits on one another, though Sir Francis’ lance ultimately glanced to the side and Sir Anthony’s stayed on target and shattered, and Aziraphale jumped despite himself.

“Well, that’s unexpected,” Sandalphon said in a low voice, and Gabriel hummed in agreement.

“Unexpected?” Aziraphale asked despite himself as the knights rode back to start.

“Sir Francis’ form is typical,” Gabriel said by way of explanation, “but this Sir Anthony…no style whatsoever. Doesn’t tilt his head back, doesn’t roll a shoulder or do much of anything at all, really. Just rides and hits.”

Aziraphale privately thought that was all to the sport, but he knew better than to voice it. “Tilt his head back?”

“To shield from splinters,” Gabriel said, and as the second tilt began, Aziraphale held his breath and watched. True to what Gabriel said, Sir Anthony’s head didn’t move at all, rock steady as he jabbed his lance into the center of Sir Francis’ chest and won the second tilt by inches. Sir Francis did tilt her head back some, notwithstanding the narrow slit of her visor. Aziraphale also noticed that as Sir Francis rode back to her starting point, she seemed to be slumping on her horse, while Sir Anthony sat up straight and unbroken. Proud.

“He’s fearless,” Aziraphale concluded.

“Or so inexperienced he doesn’t know how to be afraid,” Gabriel snorted. There was a brief recess called, and the two knights trotted to the middle of the pitch and seemed to converse for a moment. “Hm. That’s odd.”

Aziraphale didn’t bother asking; at the start of the third tilt, the knights rode towards each other, but without urgency, and at the center they saluted each other with their lances rather than crashing together. Sandalphon whistled, and Gabriel huffed again.

“Sir Francis must be hurt,” he said as the knight in question definitely started sliding sideways off her horse. “Sir Anthony advances. On technicality only.”

“He had two lances, I hardly think it was technicality,” Aziraphale said.

“He could have finished Sir Francis,” Gabriel argued. “Knocked her off her horse, even. Seized victory by the throat rather than this…soft display.”

“He shows mercy,” Aziraphale said, more to himself than anything, and Gabriel’s derisive snort said everything Aziraphale already knew he would say. Aziraphale watched as Sir Anthony rode back to his men, all of whom were jumping and hollering almost louder than the crowd, patting their lord and hugging each other. As soon as Sir Anthony tossed his helmet off, Aziraphale was knocked breathless by his laughing face, by the obvious fondness he had for the younger men in his retinue.

Sir Anthony Antonio, Aziraphale mused. He would be one to watch quite closely, indeed.

.

Crowley felt the armor buckle across his chest as his second opponent’s lance landed on his chest. He managed to get the man’s helmet off in the third tilt and won the match, but he looked down at the large crack in the chest plate with dismay.

“Should have saved our last penny for the blacksmith’s,” he said as he rode back to the others. Adam whistled.

“There’s got to be someone in the smithy that’ll take an IOU,” Brian said, helping him out of the armor once he was off the horse. “Rate you’re going, even the second-place prize should cover a small repair.”

Unfortunately, every smith in Rouen seemed to have heard that one before.

“You might try the farrier,” the last smith on the block said, without looking up from the repair work on another knight’s gauntlet they were doing.

“Would a farrier know how to patch this?” Crowley frowned.

“Beggars can’t be choosers, my lord,” the smith said. Crowley sighed, looked at the lads, and shrugged.

“Might as well try,” Adam said, and led the way across the road to the farrier’s stall, where a dark-skinned woman in a leather apron was in the middle of quenching her current project. She glanced at them as they approached, and the twist of her mouth already spoke volumes before Crowley even opened his mouth.

“I don’t work for promises,” the farrier snipped. “Go find some other gullible idiot to get free work from.”

“It’s not free work. If you’d just help me out, I’ll win and can pay you back,” Crowley argued. The farrier glared at him and went back to work. Crowley glanced at the others. Wensleydale shrugged. Brian frowned. Adam cocked his head and opened his mouth.

“It’s just as well, they said we were daft for asking,” Adam said, and jerked his head, indicating for Crowley to start walking away, which he did.

“Who?” the farrier asked.

“The other armorers,” Crowley replied. The farrier gave her deadliest glare to date and quenched another horseshoe.

“Did they say I couldn’t do it because I’m young? Or because I’m a woman?” the farrier hissed.

“Neither,” Adam replied. “They said you were great with horseshoes but rubbish with armor.”

The farrier threw down her tools and snatched the chest plate from Crowley’s hands. “Give me that,” she said savagely, and picked her tongs back up. “So help me, if I do this and you lot stiff me, no one will ever find your bodies.”

“No need to worry, miss, we’re not thieves,” Crowley said, and the farrier glanced at him ill-temperedly.

“For your own sake, I hope you aren’t,” the farrier said. “I’m Pepper, by the way.”

“Anthony Antonio,” Crowley replied. “Of Lichtenstein.”

Pepper gave him another look, this one more of a confused eyebrow quirk, but she didn’t say anything else until the patch was in place and the armor was whole again.

“There,” she said when she was done, thrusting the piece back into Crowley’s hands. “The thing’s almost more patches than plate but it should hold up for the rest of the tournament, at least.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, inspecting her work. It was almost seamless; Crowley hadn’t seen repair work that good in a long time. “Much appreciated, Miss Pepper.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye on your progress, Sir Anthony,” Pepper said, and looked at the other boys with him. “Well, go on, you got the one favor out of me already, and I have more work to do. Scram!”

“Thanks, Pepper,” Adam said as Crowley led the charge away from her, and Pepper shrugged him off.

“It’s just as well we’re done for the day,” Brian said conversationally as they walked towards camp to tuck the armor away for the night. “I’m starved.”

“When are you ever not?” Crowley snorted. “Heard a Count Gabriel was jousting soon after me, maybe his match isn’t over. I’ve heard his name before.”

“Let’s find out, then,” Adam said, and they met back up with Newt at camp and then headed back to the stadium. There was indeed a match going on, and Crowley was riveted by the style of the larger knight in the burnished armor—that is, until the knight took off his helmet to wipe his face and Crowley recognized the man who’d humiliated him in front of his angel. He scowled.

“That’s Count Gabriel,” Newt said, and flushed when Crowley frowned at him. “I recognize his coat of arms. Big champion in the northern circuits.”

“Right,” Crowley frowned, and watched the rest of the match intently, analyzing Count Gabriel’s style. He was solid and tall, with a powerful strike. Crowley very much hoped his armor wouldn’t have to take any more punishment before facing him tomorrow, as they surely must; Gabriel swept his opponent with ease, securing his spot in the finals. Crowley glared at his stupid handsome head, then looked up to the arena stands to see if he could maybe catch a glimpse of his angel. He was still in the stands, only this time looking deep in conversation with a dark-haired woman and not paying much attention at all to what was going on in the arena. Crowley let himself hope that maybe his angel and Count Gabriel were mere acquaintances and not any more deeply connected than that.

“Come on, let’s get some food and some rest,” Brian said, and started hauling Crowley out of the arena with the rest of the crowd. “If you’re facing him tomorrow, you need all the help you can get.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Crowley said sourly, but didn’t argue.

.

“Gabriel’s gone and made the formal declaration that he’ll win this tournament for you,” Anathema said, and Aziraphale groaned.

“Yes, yes, alright, he’s proved his point,” Aziraphale sighed, sitting on his bed and letting Anathema pull his shoes from his feet. All day sitting in the stands was surprisingly dusty work, but at least it hadn’t been boring. Not when a certain red-headed knight had been jousting and casting poorly-disguised looks his way. “Nothing’s quite settled, you know, he doesn’t need to make such sweeping declarations.”

“I’m sure he thinks it’s what’s expected of him,” Anathema shrugged. “Why, would you rather Sir Anthony have said it instead?”

“I—I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale squeaked, and Anathema looked up at him with a smug smile. “How did you—what would give you that—”

“It’s not exactly a secret that the man chased you down in the street and then tried flirting with you in the stands,” Anathema said. “He’s handsome and he seems to actually like you.”

“That doesn’t mean I should throw myself at him, Anathema,” Aziraphale said severely.

“That’s also not really an answer to my question,” Anathema replied. Aziraphale could feel his face turning bright red and he bit his lip.

“I…I hardly know him,” Aziraphale stammered. “We’ve only spoken twice.”

“Yes,” Anathema nodded, “but do you want him to make sweeping declarations of devotion like that?”

Aziraphale covered his face in an effort to hide his blush but knew it was useless. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “He is…he is quite handsome, isn’t he?”

“A pretty face isn’t a great indication of character, but it doesn’t hurt,” Anathema said, and smiled. “Besides, we know he has great taste.”

“Oh, shush,” Aziraphale huffed. “I would need to get to know him better before wishing any such thing of him.”

“Then do it,” Anathema said, and stood. “Flirt back and see what he does.”

“You are a terrible friend,” Aziraphale said, and Anathema laughed.

“I’m just saying, he isn’t Gabriel,” Anathema said. “At the very least, he could be an entertaining distraction.”

“That’s horrible,” Aziraphale said, but he was smiling. “Alright. Let’s see what he does.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Learning names and someone doesn't fare as well in the tiltyard as he would hope, who could it beeee?

Crowley was deep in the zone when a knock on his chest plate woke him. He’d been informed earlier that morning that Gabriel was his first opponent of the day, and he was viciously denying anything akin to nerves. Across the pitch, Count Gabriel was already on his horse, waving at fans and chatting with his herald, a bland doughy man Crowley remembered seeing next to him the day before.

“Sir Anthony!” Adam hissed, and Crowley blinked.

“Yes! What? I’m awake,” Crowley babbled, and noticed there was a pretty dark-haired woman behind Adam, looking at him expectantly.

“Lady Anathema,” Adam introduced, “the retainer of a certain angel you’ve had your eye on.”

Crowley flushed as Lady Anathema raised an eyebrow at him, but inclined his head politely. Anathema bobbed, and held out a shimmering white silk scarf, embroidered with golden roses.

“My lord thought it would be a nice gesture if you would wear this token for him,” Anathema said, and it was all Crowley could do to keep from snatching it.

“Of course,” Crowley said, immediately using it to tie his hair back.

“He also said to tell you,” Anathema said, “that his name…”

Crowley leaned in despite himself, and Anathema grinned at him.

“…is Aziraphale,” Anathema finished, and with another bob excused herself as Crowley settled back on his heels, repeating the name to himself every so often. Aziraphale. Beautiful.

There was the sound of a jaw being closed next to him with a snap, and Crowley glanced over to see Newt getting his chin chucked by a chuckling Adam as Newt stared after where Anathema had gone. Crowley couldn’t have cared less. He mounted his horse and made sure the scarf and his hair were both carefully tucked into his helmet, then looked up at the stands, where Anathema was retaking her seat next to his angel. Aziraphale. Was it just him, or was Aziraphale smiling at him? Crowley was glad he wasn’t moving under his own power; otherwise, he might have faceplanted straight in the dust at the thought.

He shook his head. Focus. Opponent to beat. Depending on how today went, this very match might decide if he won or lost. No matter that second place still got a prize in this particular tourney; Crowley had his eyes on tournament champion, and was determined to make it there. No stupidly chiseled blockhead was going to stop him here. Gabriel seemed to be sizing him up at last, though his expression was one of bored amusement, as if Crowley was nothing more than a dull distraction. Crowley gritted his teeth and accepted his lance.

Gabriel’s lance shattered right on the same spot Pepper had patched the day before, and it knocked the breath from Crowley’s lungs. By sheer luck, he managed to break his own lance off on the side of Gabriel’s armor, though he thought the tilt might officially go to Gabriel. He saw the flag go on Gabriel’s side and swore even as he gasped for breath.

“He hits like a hammer,” Crowley croaked, working on regulating his breathing. Across the pitch, he saw a large splinter get taken out from under Gabriel’s arm, tipped quite a bit in red, and felt a wave of satisfaction. He looked to the stands, and saw Aziraphale was standing at a pillar, watching with rapt attention. Crowley straightened up and took the second lance.

“He aims high,” Newt observed. “Try rolling your shoulder back, his blow might glance off.”

“Or it might obliterate me,” Crowley argued. Newt shrugged.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t a gamble,” Newt replied, and Crowley had to give him that, at least.

Crowley had a split second to decide if he was going to take Newt’s advice or not, and did; to his delight, Gabriel’s lance glanced off while Crowley’s shattered against his chest, and a yowl of victory tore itself from his throat. He shot a huge smile Aziraphale’s way that he remembered too late Aziraphale couldn’t actually see, and went back to start to prepare for the final tilt.

There was a manic energy to Gabriel during the third tilt; he started galloping before the flag had even dropped, and Crowley, high on possible victory and his angel’s attention, raced to meet him.

The lance clocking him in the head so hard his helmet flew off whited out everything.

He came to slumped back across the hindquarters of his horse, still on it but barely, and his ears were ringing as sick dizzy consciousness came back to him.

“Sir Anthony!” someone was shouting, and he felt hands on the sides of his face.

“He’s alive, give him some space!” someone else yelled, and he felt the horse walking. He groaned and hauled himself upright, just in time to see Count Gabriel take off his helmet and pick up something white and delicate from the dust with his lance. Crowley patted his head and groaned again—he’d lost the token.

Seething, he watched as Gabriel trotted to where Aziraphale was standing and offered the scarf up to him on the tip of his lance, and he watched as Aziraphale took the scarf back without so much as a glance. Crowley couldn’t help the slightly deranged smile that spread on his face. Take that, Gabriel. For his part, Gabriel looked troubled but ultimately satisfied, especially when he started trotting towards Crowley.

“You have potential,” Gabriel said when he was close enough. Crowley, still having some trouble keeping entirely upright, glared at him. “Gain more bearing. See me again when you’re worthy, Anthony Antonio.” With a final derisive grin, Gabriel rode back to his own side of the arena, and Crowley swallowed a thousand curses. Not here. Not with Aziraphale still watching. He rolled his head over to where Aziraphale had been standing and gave him a weak smile. To Crowley’s delight, his angel returned it with a bob and a tiny wave.

“Come on, off the horse, we need to get your head looked at,” Adam instructed, and Crowley was perfectly content to do as he was told for the moment.

.

“And, as winner of the joust and tournament champion,” the announcer droned, and Crowley itched at the blooming bruise across his cheek where the lance had struck him through the helmet, “I give you: Count Gabriel!”

Crowley grimaced as Gabriel stepped up to accept his award, and full-on scowled when Gabriel stepped back in line beside him with a smirk.

“Next time we face each other,” Crowley said conversationally, “you’re going to be looking up at me from the flat of your back.”

“Please,” Gabriel scoffed. “You’ve been weighed, you’ve been measured, and this time, you’ve been found wanting.”

“This time,” Crowley agreed. “Not next time.”

“Sure,” Gabriel said, and clapped him on the shoulder as the crowd began to disperse. “Let me know when you wake up, dreaming all the time is bad for you.”

Crowley very narrowly resisted the urge to hit Gabriel in the head with the second-place prize, a solid gold statuette of a jousting knight (how ironic, Crowley fumed).

As they were packing up the cart and horse, Crowley noticed Pepper approaching and grabbed the golden knight trophy. He tossed it at her when she was in range. “For your services, madam. Break off however much we owe you.”

“Your armor wasn’t made for you, was it?” Pepper asked, casting a critical eye at where Wensleydale was loading Crowley’s armor into the cart. “Bit obvious.”

“What of it?” Crowley snapped, Gabriel’s sting from the day before echoing in his ears.

“I could make you some, if you’d like,” Pepper said, looking at him thoughtfully. “Would fit and look better. And I’ve got some ideas on how to streamline the design without compromising on protection, if you’re interested.”

“What would that cost us?” Crowley asked, thinking it over. Having better armor would certainly give him an edge; would be nice if it also robbed Gabriel of something to poke fun at. Adam walked up to join the conversation, hovering at Crowley’s elbow.

“Take me with you,” Pepper said. “At least as far as Paris. Do that much and you’ll get it at no extra charge.”

Crowley’s gut reaction was to refuse, and he opened his mouth to do as much, but Adam beat him to the punch. “Sounds great to me,” Adam said cheerfully.

“Hang on—” Crowley protested.

“You need armor, and she needs safe passage. Seems like we can help each other out quite a bit, doesn’t it?” Adam said, looking at Crowley with a raised eyebrow. “Besides, we took Newt along.”

“That’s—it—it’s not—” Crowley sputtered, then yelped as the golden knight was tossed back at him.

“Great, glad that’s settled,” Adam said cheerfully. “Welcome aboard, Pepper.”

“Glad to be aboard,” Pepper smirked. Crowley groaned. They didn’t have anything to blackmail Pepper’s silence with, no assurance at all that once the jig was up Pepper wouldn’t go running to the authorities. But she seemed to fit in with the lads, so maybe that would be enough.

“Sir Anthony,” Newt panted as he jogged up, carrying a bag full of road provisions. “I—I’d hoped to catch you before you packed up, it’s—there’s the banquet tonight, you know, and—and it’s traditional to attend—”

“Next tournament’s in a week, if we leave now we can walk most of the way and spare the horse,” Crowley said stoutly. He had no desire whatsoever to put himself back in the way of those pompous smirking nobles.

“But—”

“Gentlemen,” a familiar voice said, and Crowley turned on his heel to see Anathema strolling towards them. His heart immediately leapt into his throat. He heard a vague strangled noise from Newt behind him, but was a little more busy trying to smooth back his hair. Anathema made a small inclination of the head, which Crowley returned, and she smiled at him with a wry, arched brow. “My lord wishes to know the color of Sir Anthony’s tunic tonight.”

“My—what?” Crowley blinked.

“Your tunic, sir,” Anathema repeated. “So he can dress to complement you at banquet.”

“We regret to inform your ladyship that—” Adam started, and Crowley forced his tongue to untangle itself.

“Herald, don’t answer questions you don’t know the answers to,” he hissed, and Adam rolled his eyes where Anathema couldn’t see.

“Absolutely, m’lord,” he mumbled.

“Um—squire, answer her,” Crowley said, looking at Wensleydale, who paled. “What—what color is my tunic tonight?”

“Um…” Wensleydale squeaked as Anathema turned to look at him. “Um—actually, I think it’s—it’s black. With…um…red?”

“I’ll inform my lord,” Anathema said, and with a final amused glance at Crowley—or possibly behind him—she strode away. Crowley held his breath until she was far enough away, then groaned, burying his face in the horse’s saddle.

“No need to be like that, I think we can have something very nice-looking by tonight,” Brian said brightly. Crowley peeled his face from the saddle and glared at the collective group of misfits and urchins he’d managed to land himself with, all of whom were looking at him with various mixtures of smugness and apprehension.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Crowley mumbled.

“What was that?” Pepper asked, and Crowley groaned loudly.

“I can’t dance!” he growled. “Never could! Two left feet, me!”

“Well, it can’t be that hard to learn a few basic steps,” Brian reasoned. “Newt, do you dance?”

“Um—sort of,” Newt blushed.

“I dance,” Pepper said. “I can teach you.”

Crowley glared at her. “And what’ll that cost me, miss blacksmith?”

“Some courtesy, for one,” Pepper glared back. Crowley held her gaze before sighing.

“Yeah, alright,” he muttered. “Go on, then. Teach me how to dance.”

“We’ll just take this and find you something nice, m’lord,” Adam said, sneaking the golden knight out of Crowley’s hands. “Wensley, Brian, you’re with me. Newt, you stay with Pepper and Cr—Sir Anthony.”

“Alright,” Newt nodded cautiously. Crowley sighed. This was going to be a very long afternoon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Banquet! And some fun afterwards! :P
> 
> EDIT: I HAVE UPDATED THE STORY WITH WHAT THE RULES OF THE JOUST ARE ACCORDING TO THE FILM. I realized this chapter that I had completely forgotten to include them back in Chapter Three where it would be important to begin to know them. (For a refresher: one point for breaking a lance on a rider's chestplate, two points for breaking a lance on the helmet, and three points for bearing a knight to the ground, and should you do so, you win the horse from your opponent. Okay? Okay. On with the show!)

“It’ll have to do,” Pepper said grimly after several hours of trying to teach Crowley some basic steps inside a stable she managed to borrow for the day. “Just don’t step on anyone’s toes and you’ll be decent enough.”

“Good luck with that,” Newt mumbled, massaging his sore feet. Crowley kicked at him.

“At least you’ll look good for your paramour,” Adam said proudly, flourishing the black tunic he and Wensleydale had been working on (mostly Wensleydale). Crowley had to admit that at Wensley had done a decent job; at the very least, he might not stick out as overtly poor. The little touches of red at the collar and sleeves were nice. Speaking of red…Crowley touched his hair, running his hands through it.

“There’s a rain barrel in the corner for washing up,” Pepper pointed. “You’re going to need it.”

“Thanks,” Crowley frowned, and went to do just that. Couldn’t show up looking grimy, after all. “Do you arrange hair, Pepper?”

“Why, just because I’m female, it means I have to be good at fixing people up?” she glared, and Crowley dunked his head to escape her.

“I can,” Newt said quietly when Crowley surfaced. Crowley shook his head, wringing out his hair as best he could. “Would you like some help?”

“Just pull some of it back,” Crowley instructed, accepting the spare shirt Brian tossed him to better dry out his hair. “Where’s the comb, Wensley?”

It took the better part of an hour, but by the end of it, Crowley looked himself over and thought he didn’t look half bad. His hair dried a little more curly than he would’ve liked, but maybe Aziraphale was into that. One way to find out, he thought.

“You look quite dashing,” Pepper said thoughtfully. “Crowley.”

“Yeah?” Crowley said, then paled. Wensleydale squeaked. Adam and Brian looked nervously at her. Newt clapped a hand over his mouth. Pepper started laughing.

“Honestly, you lot, calm down,” she smiled. “Secret’s safe with me, so long as you let me travel along.”

“You drive a hard bargain, miss,” Crowley said sourly, but couldn’t help the grin he returned. “Alright. Off I go, then.”

“Good luck wooing gentleman fair,” Adam said, and Crowley threw a handful of straw at him.

As Crowley feared, everyone at banquet outdressed him. As Crowley hoped, Aziraphale was hovering near the entrance, and lit up as soon as he saw Crowley loping through the doors. He bustled towards him, his smile nervous. Crowley returned it and hoped his nerves weren’t quite so obvious.

“Sir Anthony,” Aziraphale said, and bobbed a little bow. Crowley returned it a half-second too late, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. Crowley took a moment to look over Aziraphale’s clothing of choice—white with splashes of blue. He raised an eyebrow.

“Thought Anathema said you were dressing to match,” he said, and Aziraphale flushed.

“Complement,” Aziraphale protested. “I said complement. And I think we make a striking pair, do we not?”

“Striking,” Crowley agreed, and blinked when Aziraphale offered him his arm. Crowley slipped his hand into the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow and let himself be led towards the banquet table.

“The food here isn’t quite as good as it is in Paris or London, perhaps, but you simply must try the roast chicken, I’m not sure what spice they used but it’s divine…” Aziraphale chattered about the food and Crowley found himself completely entranced as Aziraphale piled a platter high and insisted Crowley try a little bit of everything. Crowley found more pleasure in watching Aziraphale put morsels in his own mouth; Aziraphale wiggled and made rapturous faces and breathy little moans that were at once torment and delight for Crowley’s overactive imagination. He ate a bit and drank his wine and watched Aziraphale’s hands as he talked and gesticulated. Crowley decided this was his favorite activity, bar none—seeing his angel so excited and happy was nothing short of bliss.

There was a loud laugh from somewhere else in the banquet hall and Aziraphale suddenly stopped, as if realizing how much he’d been talking, and wilted, folding in on himself and plastering on a bashful smile.

“Well, here I am, chattering away like a fool,” Aziraphale said apologetically, and Crowley furrowed his brows. “Um…how…how are you liking it, then?”

“Food’s nice,” Crowley shrugged. “Liked listening to you talk.”

“You—what?” Aziraphale blinked.

“Like listening to you talk,” Crowley repeated. “You get all…happy. And glowy. ‘s nice.”

Aziraphale lowered his eyes to his fidgeting fingers, but Crowley wasn’t imagining the little quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you,” Aziraphale said softly. “Most—most don’t like it, when I…well.”

“Well, they’re idiots, then, aren’t they?” Crowley sniffed. “If something makes you happy, you should be free to be happy about it.” He picked up his goblet and took a deep draught of wine, just to calm himself, because Aziraphale was smiling more widely down at his hands and Crowley needed a minute. “Um. Do you occupy libraries often?”

“Oh! Yes, yes I do! I just adore books,” Aziraphale brightened, his eyes returning to Crowley’s face, and Crowley sunk into another comfortable stretch of letting Aziraphale talk while he listened. He could do this for the rest of forever.

At some point—it must have been a while, but it felt like a blink—there was call for dancing, and when Aziraphale made no move to get up, neither did Crowley. Maybe he would get out of this bit after all.

“Sir Anthony,” someone called, and Crowley looked up and scowled as Count Gabriel smiled genially at him from a table or two down. “Why don’t you show us a dance from Lichtenstein? I’m sure we would all be very amused.”

Crowley’s throat bobbed, and he stood up. Like hell was he going to let Gabriel show up him like this. If he wanted dancing, Crowley would show him dancing. He’d show him the best dancing anyone had ever seen in their life.

If only Crowley’s limbs held the same conviction as his heart. Crowley got two steps into improvising off the dance Pepper had taught him before he realized he had no idea what to do or how to do it. Giggles were starting to permeate the air, and Crowley felt his ears growing hot. He gritted his teeth.

There was a soft hand on his shoulder, then, and Aziraphale walked around him to face him, smiling. There was an undercurrent of whispers as Aziraphale clumsily copied his motions, then brought it up into a clap, which the other people trying to copy Crowley’s awkward display then imitated. Crowley blinked wide-eyed at Aziraphale, who was a little red in the cheeks but smiled at him warmly.

It became apparent after the music started that Aziraphale was just as bad, if not worse, than Crowley was at dancing. They were out of rhythm, they bumped into other dancers, and Crowley was certain at one point he did accidentally tread on Aziraphale’s toes. There was laughter ringing out in the banquet hall and it sounded mocking, but Crowley’s attention was on Aziraphale, honey-bright eyes meeting deepest-sea, and the only laughter Crowley cared about was bubbling out of Aziraphale’s throat as they somehow managed to crash into each other and almost fell over.

“Oh, careful, dear boy!” Aziraphale gasped through his mirth as he steadied Crowley with hands on his upper arms, and Crowley felt fire where Aziraphale touched him. It occurred to him in that moment that he was likely done for. Crowley beamed at him like an idiot, and knew his face was probably beet-red. That was not helped by Aziraphale shyly stroking a few strands of loose hair from Crowley’s eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I think we’re miserable dancers,” Crowley said, grinning, and Aziraphale laughed again. “I also think we made our point, angel. Perhaps we should stop punishing the rest of the room.”

“If you think they’ve gotten their fill of Lichtenstein dancing, then I’m sure I wouldn’t say no to a sit-down and more wine,” Aziraphale smiled. Crowley did not miss how Aziraphale kept a hand on his arm as they made their way back to their seats. He also did not miss the sour expression on Gabriel’s face as he watched them retreat no worse for wear. Sod him, Crowley thought gleefully, and got the attention of a servant to serve him and Aziraphale more wine.

“Thanks, by the way,” Crowley said quietly once his breathing calmed down some. Aziraphale looked up at him.

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale replied. “I…well. You saw me out there. I’m used to being rather the odd man out in court. As…as well as the butt of a few jokes.”

How anyone could look at radiant, joyful Aziraphale and think to make fun of him was beyond Crowley. He tapped his goblet against Aziraphale’s and shot him a shy smile.

“To being the odd men out together,” he said, and almost fumbled his wine when Aziraphale smiled, far more softly and sweetly than he ever had before.

“I can certainly drink to that,” Aziraphale agreed.

.

Crowley was only a little amused to learn that Pepper had a travel forge, and was much more interested when she presented him with a new set of armor the night they got into Lagny-sur-Marne.

That interest curdled into dismay when he got a good look at it.

“It’s…it’s light,” he observed. “Very light.”

“Try it on,” Pepper said, and bullied him into the new armor with a little help from the lads, who were all very curious about it. Crowley, when he was fully kitted out, was alarmed to discover he very nearly felt naked.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “I don’t know that this is going to work. It’s not—there’s no protection, it’s so… _light_.”

“Bend,” Pepper ordered. “Twist. Feel the movement.”

“Yes, I feel it, and I am going to feel a lance crushing through my ribs the second I get hit,” Crowley argued.

“No, see, I figured out a new way to heat the steel,” Pepper explained. “It holds up just as well as the old stuff, but it shouldn’t weigh you down nearly as much.”

“He’s gonna get killed if we send him out in this,” Brian remarked. Pepper groaned and rolled her eyes.

“At least let’s test it before you slander my work to my face,” she grimaced.

This was how Crowley found himself staring down an incoming beam barreling for him, but when the beam struck him in the chest and flung him back into a wall of hay bales, he gasped with surprise.

“Crowley!” he heard one of the lads cry from beyond the small wall of hay he found himself buried in. “Are you alright?”

Crowley felt two of them grabbing his arms, and grinned as Newt and Wensleydale looked shocked at his laughter unearthing from the hay. “Didn’t feel a thing,” he beamed. “Pepper, you’re a genius.”

“Of course I am,” Pepper grinned. “I have one more thing to do to it before it’s ready for tomorrow, but it’s aesthetic. The armor’s done, functionally.”

“It’s amazing,” Crowley told her, and ruffled her hair to relieve some fondness.

The next morning, when she presented it to him wrapped in oilcloth, he carefully unwrapped it and started laughing again.

“Do I want to know how you made it black?” he asked.

“Magic,” Pepper replied, and accepted the pat on the back Adam gave her with grace.

As expected, when Crowley came out in his new armor, the other knights gathered around the entrance to the stands started laughing like crazy. Crowley smiled and nodded at them, and heard all laughter cease the second he vaulted onto his horse’s back with no help and no preamble. He might’ve posed a bit, just for effect.

“Wonder if Aziraphale’s made it yet,” he said casually, and looked across the arena to where his opponent was still struggling to get up on his mount with the help of four attendants.

And oh…there she was.

The new love of Crowley's life.

She was gorgeous—sleek black hide, glossy black mane, fire in her eyes, a picturesque gait. Crowley felt his heart in his throat.

“Who’s he, then?” he asked with barely a croak as he adjusted himself in the saddle.

“Who, him? He’s, uh, Sir Albert,” Newt said. “He was just announced as your opponent, remember?”

“No, I do, I was wondering if you had any further information, Newt, thanks,” Crowley rolled his eyes, but only a little; didn’t want to lose sight of that beautiful horse for even a second. It was clear from the way she was stepping she didn’t like her rider. She deserved a proper knight, maybe even a knight with recently lighter armor who would look just as flash on her back as she did on her own.

“He’s raised the taxes on his land three times this year to pay for tournament,” Adam said casually. “Sits in banquet while his people starve.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes as he put on his helmet (so much better than the bucket, he had to remember to thank Pepper a few more times). If that was so…all the more reason to get that exquisite creature away from him.

(Under his current mount’s neck, Adam winked at Newt and murmured a “probably true” that Crowley didn’t hear.)

It took one lance to knock Sir Albert off of his horse’s back entirely. Crowley might’ve imagined it, but in his head it seemed to him that the horse bucked at the same time he struck, and together they liberated her from an unworthy rider. Crowley thanked his faithful old horse, of course, because she had done a lot for them, but as Sir Albert’s retainer mournfully brought the new horse to Crowley, he had to take a minute to rein in his emotions.

“Adam, Brian,” he called, “get the old girl back with the cart.” He turned and held out a hand for the new black horse to sniff suspiciously, and beamed when she allowed him to pet her nose. “This one’s my new jousting mount.”

“Her name’s Bentley,” the retainer said helpfully.

“Bentley,” Crowley nodded. Bentley snorted into his palm and nosed against him, sniffing him and nuzzling at his hair. “We’re going to get on just fine you and me, aren’t we?”

There were still two lances in the match, but given that the man no longer had a horse and there was no hope of him catching up…Crowley took the opportunity to get his saddle on Bentley’s back and vault up on her to spend some time with her. She seemed to follow his thoughts more than his touch, and when he put her in a trot around the arena, it felt more like a smooth gallop. Her speed and handling were incredible.

“We’re going to go far, you and I,” Crowley promised, whispering in her ear, and Bentley snorted again. Crowley didn’t care what happened after this, he had the best horse in the entire world, and he was going to win this tournament hands-down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, in no universe is Crowley allowed to be without the Bentley and if the Bentley has to be a horse in every vaguely historical AU I write, so be it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been some minor edits to Chapter Three and the author's note in Chapter Five for those who are unaware and confused about jousting rules; I apologize again for the oversight and hope it won't happen again (and big thanks to those who were not afraid to tell me they were confused XD).

Crowley got a chance to talk to Aziraphale soon after the lads managed to drag him away from Bentley after stabling her. Crowley saw Aziraphale standing outside of the arena, chatting with Anathema and eating grapes. Crowley skidded to a halt.

“Quick, is my hair alright?” he hissed at Wensleydale, who was closest.

“Actually, it’s fine,” Wensleydale said.

“Hang on, still got some hay—there,” Adam said. “Go get him, lover boy.”

“Remind me to hit you later,” Crowley grimaced, turning it into a smile when Aziraphale looked his way. God help him, but Aziraphale lit up the second he realized who he was looking at. “Angel! You’re looking well.”

“Sir Anthony!” Aziraphale beamed, wiggling his shoulders as Crowley and his retinue approached. “I saw your first match. Terribly short-lived, I thought.”

“Sometimes, you can’t beat excellence,” Crowley shrugged, noticing from the corner of his eye Newt attempting to say hello to Anathema but playing the polite nobleman and pretending his servants didn’t exist. “Did you see the horse, though? You win the horse, if you manage to knock its rider off.”

“Yes, I thought she was a splendid creature,” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley preened. Aziraphale laughed. “You must be eager to use her later on. Do you know who your opponent will be yet?”

“Too early to tell,” Crowley said. “Did you…maybe…want to watch some more matches? Or—or go eat? Something?”

“I wouldn’t mind watching some more jousting,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “I’m sure it’s much more interesting with your commentary than…certain others.”

“You mean Gabriel,” Crowley guessed, and Aziraphale blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“You’re not wrong,” Aziraphale interrupted, and offered his arm. Crowley tried to take it casually and not like his individual particles were all screaming with joy.

“You lot bugger off, I’ll see you this afternoon,” Crowley said over his shoulder, and the lads and Pepper all nodded and scurried away. Newt, who was surprisingly in conversation with Anathema, didn’t appear to have heard, and Crowley let it be.

“You’re very friendly with them,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley frowned. “With your men, I mean.”

“Well, I rely on them, I suppose I should be,” Crowley shrugged. “Spend all our time together on the road, share inn rooms when coin is tight…yeah, we’re close.”

“How lovely,” Aziraphale said, and squeezed his arm to direct him towards the noble seating, rather than the cheap seats, where Crowley’s feet had been taking him. He flushed and hoped Aziraphale hadn’t noticed. “Can you perhaps…refresh my memory of the rules? Of the joust? I know them, it’s just, sometimes things are so abrupt—”

“No, I don’t mind,” Crowley said, and as his rump found itself resting on a cushioned seat, his mouth found itself talking a mile a minute about jousting and the ins and outs, morphing into anecdotes about his life story, and all the while Crowley processed that Aziraphale was listening with a gentle smile. He was being…if Crowley could be allowed a little pride…at least as attentive as Crowley knew he had been during banquet. It made his heart flutter.

They chatted right through four matches, until the sixth of the day was announced and Crowley stopped mid-sentence in some story about the time he’d eaten wild squirrel and was told it was chicken.

“Sir Francis and Count Gabriel?” Crowley repeated, looking down into the arena. “Oh, this should be good, if Sir Francis is recovered.”

“I do hope she is, she looked ever so poorly before,” Aziraphale fretted. “What did you two talk about, by the way? That time you decided your match was a draw?”

“Oh, something about keeping her honor intact,” Crowley shrugged. “Pride, y’know? It’s a big thing for knights.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Aziraphale said with a wry twist in his voice that Crowley didn’t know how to navigate.

“Do you have a favorite, then? Between the two?” Crowley asked. “Because I confess, my coin is on Sir Francis.”

“I suppose duty would push me to say Count Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, and he leaned in close. Crowley knew his cheeks and ears were flaming like his hair and could do nothing about it. “Between us, however, I think Sir Francis could take him down a few pegs.”

Crowley laughed, and his laugh was swallowed up in the gasps of the crowd. He frowned and looked out, and gasped, himself—a white sheet had been hung over Count Gabriel’s crest, indicating—

“A withdrawal,” Crowley breathed. “Why? Why would Gabriel do that?”

“I…I can think of one reason, but it’s so—it can’t be true, there must be another…no, surely not,” Aziraphale muttered, and Crowley glanced at him.

“Care to share, angel?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale blushed. “I’m sorry, it’s just—I’ve known Gabriel since we were children, and the only thing that could ever make him stand down is…is higher authority.”

“So…royalty,” Crowley concluded, and looked to Sir Francis, who looked put out, her shoulders slumping as Gabriel dismounted his horse and began walking away. “Huh.”

“Surely not,” Aziraphale repeated. “No royal in their right mind would think to enter the joust, it’s so dangerous.”

“Maybe,” Crowley mused. An upset this big would have Adam and the lads’ noses twitching for gossip; if it was important, they would fill him in. Then he realized that with the match canceled, his own was moved up, and he stood. “Oh, bollocks—angel, I have to go, if this one’s over already that means mine’s—”

“Go,” Aziraphale said, standing and clasping his hand. Crowley nearly died of shock and pleasure. Aziraphale smiled gently at him, and Crowley felt something folded and silky pass into his palm from Aziraphale’s. “Try to hang onto it this time?”

“I…yeah,” Crowley said dazedly, and Aziraphale gave him a little nudge towards the stairs. When Crowley looked down at what he was clutching, he saw Aziraphale’s favor folded neatly in his hand, and he startled several passersby by whooping loudly and dancing a little in the street.

.

“Wait!” Adam cried, skidding to a halt in front of Bentley as she danced impatiently at the starting point. Crowley looked down at him, pushing up his visor. “Cr—Sir Anthony, wait, you can’t!”

“Why not?” Crowley frowned.

“Sir Francis, she’s—it’s Francis, Queen of England,” Adam gasped, holding a stitch in his side. Crowley gaped at him, then looked across the arena at Sir Francis, whose horse was also mincing steps, clearly eager for their match.

“Well, that’s it, then, we have to withdraw,” Newt said. “Adam, can you—”

“On it,” Adam said, and sprinted off again.

“Here, give us the lance,” Brian said, and Crowley felt Brian reaching, but his eyes were on Sir Francis, whose posture visibly fell as the withdrawal sheet went over Sir Anthony’s own coat of arms.

Crowley frowned.

He kicked Bentley into a forward gallop.

He saw Sir Francis perk up and grab her own lance, and the two of them met in a spectacular shower of splinters as they both broke their lances on each other’s breastplates—another draw, of a sort. Rather than going back to start, they met in the middle again, Crowley lifting his visor as Sir Francis opened hers.

“Well met, Sir Anthony!” Sir Francis beamed. “As it was in Rouen!”

“You as well,” Crowley inclined his head and grinned, “Your Majesty.”

Francis blinked. Then she laughed, and took off her helmet, her telltale silvery mane cascading from the confines of her cap as she took that off, too. “You knew me!” she cried as the crowd gasped again. From the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Adam throw down the withdrawal sheet and swear.

“I did,” Crowley nodded.

“And still you rode?” Francis grinned. “Endangering a member of the royal family and everything?”

“You knowingly endanger yourself, Majesty, I don’t think you can blame me for it,” Crowley grinned back. “It’s not in me to withdraw.”

“Nor me,” Sir Francis—rather, Queen Francis—smiled. She sighed heavily and a sad cast fell on her smile. “Still. It happens.”

“I suppose it does,” Crowley said.

“Good luck with the tournament,” Queen Francis said.

“Good luck with…everything else,” Crowley replied, and Francis laughed. They saluted each other in the informal way of friendly competitors, fists tapped against breastplates and held aloft, and separated, Crowley riding Bentley back to start and grinning at the shocked faces of his crew. He looked to the stands and saw Aziraphale sitting with Anathema. He waved, and Aziraphale waved back.

Crowley was absolutely fine with this turn of events until he was standing over his last opponent the next day, heaving with exhilaration from another victory, when it dawned on him that while he had defeated every knight present…he hadn’t gotten to face Gabriel.

“Tournament champion!” Adam crowed as Crowley dismounted from Bentley.

“Not tournament champion,” Crowley disagreed. “Gabriel withdrew. I’m not champion until I beat him.”

“Oh, give over, he withdrew, that means you won fair and square,” Pepper remarked, catching his helmet as Crowley tossed it off in a growing pique of temper.

“Sir Anthony!”

Crowley bit back a swear. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault he was suddenly in a foul mood, he reminded himself, even as he wished Aziraphale had better timing. “Hi.”

“Might I inquire about your choice of dress for banquet?” Aziraphale asked with a hopeful smile, falling into step as Crowley stalked away from the arena.

“Nothing,” Crowley scowled. The last thing he wanted was to hear how hollow his victory was because one opponent was the bloody Queen of England and the other withdrew, especially not from the mouths of a bunch of stuck-up nobles who didn’t even appreciate one of their own, let alone someone who might as well stick out like a sore thumb as a poor knight.

“I believe we’ll cause quite the sensation if we show up matching this time,” Aziraphale said mildly.

“Is dressing nicely all you care about, angel?” Crowley snapped. Adam leaned in as Aziraphale’s smile faded.

“I believe he’s talking more about getting _un_ dressed, milord,” Adam hissed. Crowley frowned, played back the conversation, then felt his cheeks heat as he stared back at Aziraphale. His angel regained his sly smile as Crowley gaped.

“A book is certainly more than its cover, but a nice cover does help, does it not?” Aziraphale winked.

“—only won because Count Gabriel—” some loud fan said in passing behind Crowley, cuffing him with their shoulder, and Crowley’s temper flared.

“A book helps nothing,” Crowley growled at his feet. “A book can’t keep you fed, or warm—”

“Agree to disagree on both counts, but a sonnet never knocked a man off a horse, either,” Aziraphale said gently. “My dear—”

“Don’t,” Crowley barked, “just—I’m not—not going to stupid banquet, I’m sorry, angel, I just need—bye.” He stalked off before he said something else he’d regret, though the look back he couldn’t resist showed him that he’d said quite enough; Aziraphale’s expressive face was visibly downcast as he talked to Anathema. Crowley gritted his teeth, turned around, and kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the infamous words of Arthur Shappey when he used the name Arthur Milliner to secretly plan a birthday party, "That's the clever bit--it's the last name you'd expect me to use, because it actually is my name!" Sir/Queen Francis subscribes to this policy wholeheartedly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We cover about a month in a very short span of text; hopefully that's clear!

Crowley’s dark mood hung over him all the way to Bordeaux, where it congealed.

“What do you mean, Count Gabriel isn’t here?” he fumed. “Of course he’s here, he has to be here.”

“He’s not,” Newt shook his head. “I heard it from the tavern—Queen Francis called him and his army away for other business.”

Crowley did his best to breathe normally and not react like a toddler having a tantrum. This was the second time Count Gabriel’s smug face was going to be out of range of his lance, and it wasn’t bloody _fair_.

Also not fair was the lack of a curly-haired angel in the stands, a lack that became increasingly more obvious the more Crowley desperately stared into them and wished for that absence to reverse itself.

“He’s not here, either, Crowley,” Newt said gently during the second day of the Bordeaux tournament while Crowley fidgeted with Bentley’s reins and openly scanned the nobility seating for the eighth time in a row.

“First Gabriel, now Aziraphale? This tournament blows,” Brian said loudly. Crowley gritted his teeth and might have roared a little when it was time to tilt. Fine. Let Gabriel be called away from his reckoning. Let Aziraphale hate him. He needed to let off some steam anyhow.

About a month, several small tournaments, and enough horses for his whole crew to ride later, a small fortune amassing in their meager coin purses, Crowley was no closer to working through his frustration on the matter. If anything, he had a billowing cloud of anger that refused to dissipate.

He had to do something different. They were nearly to Paris, and Crowley realized that while his Gabriel-related frustrations were out of his control…his Aziraphale-related ones had to be dealt with on his own. And they could. With some…creative input.

“Dear Aziraphale—no, hang on,” Crowley frowned, pacing in the inn stable they were renting for the night, twirling the silk scarf token in his fingers, “—my dearest angel. How ‘bout that?”

“Better,” Newt nodded, scribbling on his parchment.

“Erm…I miss you,” Crowley said, and flinched when Pepper and Adam both hissed. “What?”

“No, no, go on, it’s your funeral,” Pepper said.

“Letter. She means letter,” Adam said quickly. Pepper glared in a way that meant she most certainly did not.

“More poetic,” Brian advised. “Upper-crust scholar types love that.”

“Right,” Crowley grunted, pacing. He chewed his lip. Time to dip into those maudlin daydreams where he always knew the right thing to say. He thought for a while. “It…it’s strange to think…” he looked at his friends, all of whom smiled and nodded at him in their own way. Adam gave him a thumb’s-up. Crowley huffed and squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s strange to think that our friendship has been so brief that we’ve been apart longer than we were together, and it feels wrong that it should be so. I’ve seen the moon change her gown more than I’ve seen your smile, and what right does the moon have to beam down on me when you cannot?”

“Not bad,” Newt commented. “Not bad at all. Keep going.”

“I’m sorry for what I said,” Crowley continued. “I spoke in anger that wasn’t yours to endure, and no ill temper of mine is yours to suffer through. I promise to do better in the future, if you’ll let me.”

“Excellent,” Pepper nodded.

“What else should I say?” Crowley asked.

“More poetry,” Adam advised. “Say something about his legs. Or his backside.”

“What would you know about his backside?” Crowley scowled.

“No more than you, but that’s the point, isn’t it?” Adam smirked.

“Actually, you should say something more about how sorry you are,” Wensleydale advised. “It’s called groveling. Very popular in love letters, groveling.”

“Okay,” Crowley nodded, “okay. Um.”

“The thought that you could be angry with me forever breaks my heart,” Adam suggested.

“Yes, okay,” Crowley nodded, “but—”

“Breaks my heart so much,” Brian continued for him, “that the pieces could be passed through the eye of a needle, never to be found again.”

“Now would be when to say you miss him,” Pepper said.

“And…how should I say that?” Crowley asked.

“Talk more about the sky,” Brian advised. “You were on a good one with that bit.”

“The sky,” Crowley mused. “How about…” He touched the scarf to his mouth, feeling the familiar rose embroidery on the edges, then grinned. “I miss you like the sun misses the flower.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Newt nodded.

“Like the sun misses the flower in the dead of winter,” Crowley continued. “Instead of beauty to direct its light to, it glares down on an indifferent world, barren and cold like the winter your absence has banished me to.”

“Oh, very good, what book did you get that from?” Brian asked.

“From my own brain, thank you very much,” Crowley said haughtily, though in the back of his mind he was guiltily kicking aside old love songs he must have heard a hundred times while begging outside taverns. “Newt, pick this up—the next tournament is in Paris, and the weather should be fine, though no matter what, if you’re not there, it’s wintertime to me.”

“And now to finish it up,” Newt said, indicating that the end of the page was imminent. “Hope works rather well.”

“Love should always end with hope,” Pepper nodded.

“Hope,” Crowley mused. “Hope…hope guides me. It is what gets me through the day and especially the night—hope that each time we part, it will not be the last time I get to see you. You hold my hope now, angel, along with my heart.” He paused. “With…with all the love I possess…Crowley.”

Newt looked up at him. “You mean Anthony, surely.”

Crowley bit his lip.

.

“With all the love I possess,” Aziraphale read tearfully, “I remain yours…the Knight of your heart.”

He wiped at his eyes with the handkerchief Sir Anthony’s man Newt had generously provided when Aziraphale started getting weepy around the middle of the letter, and he sighed, pressing the parchment to his breast.

“M-my master hoped you might…send a reply,” Newt stammered, and Aziraphale sniffed and smiled.

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, and took a half-step towards his writing desk before he paused. A thought occurred. Aziraphale turned to Newt and gave him a very innocent smile.

Newt gulped.

.

Paris was bustling, but Crowley’s ears were finely-tuned to the sound of approaching horses, and Newt riding up triumphant on one of their prize horses drew Crowley’s attention as surely as a drumbeat. He looked at Newt’s exhilarated smile and felt hope.

“So?” Crowley asked. “Did you see him? Did he read it?”

“Yes to both,” Newt smiled.

“And?” Crowley asked.

“He’s coming to Paris,” Newt confirmed. “Wants to see you, in fact. Said he’ll be sending Anathema along with a time and location when he’s in town.”

“Amazing,” Crowley said, pumping his fist a few times. “Absolutely—you’re a gem, mate, can’t thank you enough.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Did he reply? Did he send a token?”

“Erm.” Newt colored.

“He did, didn’t he?” Crowley beamed, and Newt nodded, his expression crumbling. “Well, don’t just stand there, let me have it!”

Newt sighed deeply. Then he darted forward and pecked Crowley on the mouth, then stepped back, rubbing his lips and spitting. Crowley blinked. Then he whooped, running in excited circles, because _his angel sent him a kiss, his angel kissed him, oh my Holy Virgin in Heaven is this real—_

“Alright, alright, calm down, you still have opening ceremonies to get through,” Adam called, catching Crowley by the collar, and Crowley merely hummed and vibrated through the process of getting armored up for the parade. His mind was entirely elsewhere through the whole thing, so much so that Brian had to steer Bentley to stop Crowley from knocking into buildings and riding straight into wells.

Anathema came once opening ceremonies were over, her little half-grin almost as welcome as Aziraphale himself would have been. Crowley beamed at her. Newt tripped over his feet when he tried to say hello.

“Hi,” Anathema replied to Newt, her smile a little more soft for him, and looked up at Crowley. “He’ll be at Notre Dame in the morning for confession. Should be enough time for a little rendezvous before the tournament starts, shouldn’t it, Sir Anthony?”

“Yeah,” Crowley nodded, “yeah, absolutely, whatever he wants.”

“Good,” Anathema nodded. “Good luck tomorrow, by the way, in case I don’t see you.”

“Right,” Crowley nodded, and purposely looked away and made himself busy when Anathema turned to talk to Newt. It was a good day for everyone, apparently. Pepper looked pleased as punch with the attention her armor was getting, and Crowley could only guess she was being bombarded with job offers. He privately hoped she wouldn’t take any until after the championships in London, but it was her prerogative.

.

“Alright, the bet they want to make is that a Frenchman, and not Sir Anthony, will win this tournament,” Adam said, sitting at the table and passing out the drinks he’d gotten for his friends before being interrupted by some rude French noblemen also drinking in their tavern.

“That’s an easy bet,” Brian remarked.

“The bet’s for fifty gold,” Adam said, and Wensleydale’s eyes got huge.

“But—but that’s all we’ve got,” Brian frowned.

“And if we had sixty, the bet would be sixty,” Newt snorted. “I’m not sure—”

“Oh, come on, with his angel in the stands watching, there’s no way he’s going to lose,” Adam argued.

“Another fifty gold and we’d be set for life,” Pepper remarked.

“It’s too risky, I don’t think we should,” Newt shook his head.

In the midst of the French heckling being thrown their way by the adversarial Frenchmen looking for a bet, one of them burped and made the following remark:

“And of course, no foreigner will win this French tournament, because the Pope himself is French!”

A curious kind of calm came over Newt, who set his jaw and turned back to the offending Frenchman. “The Pope might be French, but Jesus is foreign. You’re on.”

It was the first time in his life Newton Pulsifer had ever received applause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foreshadowing? What's foreshadowing? I don't know any foreshadowing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you worried that this was a setup...you'll just have to read and see, won't you? :3

Crowley was antsy the next morning, and dressed himself in his best tunic (or, rather his favorite; he had finer tunics now, but his favorite was still the one Wensleydale had made for his first banquet, and he could use the good luck it had brought him). He messed with his hair for so long he was certain he’d made himself late, but thought the effect he’d wound up with looked nice, half his hair pulled back and twisted in an elegant little knot. Notre Dame was imposing and beautiful in the cold morning light, but Crowley paid little attention, because just inside, standing in a rosette window’s light…

Aziraphale was objectively a handsome man, not unapproachably so, but lit up with all the colors of the stained glass, he looked ethereal, nigh-untouchable. Crowley approached with caution, and tried his best to temper his joy and nerves when Aziraphale noticed his footsteps and looked to him. Aziraphale smiled like a sunrise. Crowley tripped over his own feet and wasn’t sorry about it in the least. He defied anyone else to walk in a straight line with that smile beamed in their direction.

“Sir Anthony,” Aziraphale breathed, and Crowley’s heart gave a curious double thump—one thump of joy for Aziraphale acknowledging his existence, one thump of guilt for the continued necessary deception. He hoped the second would get lost. “I received your letter.”

“I…good,” Crowley swallowed hard. “Um.”

Aziraphale laughed, a gentle thing. “You’re quite the poet, sir. I assume you can’t do it on command?”

“I can certainly try,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale smiled. “Um. What…would you like most to hear?”

“Oh, whatever you think is best,” Aziraphale replied, and Crowley gulped. He really needed to have a word with the Almighty about those incredible eyes. Unfair, really, for them to be such an ineffable shade of blue. Wildly he thought about comparing Aziraphale’s backside to a pillow, but really, surely he had more sense than to say something like _that_ aloud, at least in a cathedral.

“Hurmgh,” Crowley said, when he meant to say something incredibly witty and complimentary, and blushed. Aziraphale laughed again and took his hand.

“You needn’t put yourself out for me, my dear,” Aziraphale said gently.

“But—but you deserve it,” Crowley blurted, and a harebrained idea took him. “That’s why—that’s why I’m winning this tournament for you.”

Aziraphale’s bright eyes shuttered in an instant. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Crowley nodded, not sure what he was doing wrong but going with it in hopes he would start making sense shortly. “Every enemy I take down, it’s for you. Your—uh—your b-beauty will be reflected in the power of my arm, in the strength of my horse’s flanks.”

Aziraphale let go of his hand. He took a step back, his expression fully dark now, and Crowley bit back a vile curse at himself.

“I’m used to people comparing me to horse flanks, Sir Anthony, but I didn’t think it would come from you,” Aziraphale said coolly. “If that’s all…” He took a step to leave, and Crowley growled at himself and danced in front of Aziraphale.

“Okay, if that’s not—what can I do?” Crowley begged. “What can I do to prove—myself? To you?”

Aziraphale considered him. “Do you ask in earnest?”

“Most earnest thing I’ve ever done,” Crowley nodded. “What do you want? Anything at all, name it.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “If you would prove your love, my dear…do your worst.”

“My worst,” Crowley repeated. “I…what? Rather thought I’d already accomplished that.”

Aziraphale snorted but his smile didn’t last. “Rather than winning this tournament and thinking to honor me with your high reputation…you should instead lose.”

“Lose,” Crowley repeated. “I should—I should _lose_?” Aziraphale nodded. Crowley tossed his head. “I don’t see how that’s supposed to prove—”

“Oh, I disagree,” Aziraphale said, suddenly pinning Crowley in place with his gaze, and Crowley gulped again, feeling like the hunted one this time around. “Losing is a much keener test of your feelings, I think. Acting against your usual nature, proving your loyalty to your beloved and not to your pride…” Aziraphale shrugged. “Don’t think to honor me with your own jousting glory, it’s given by others and means nothing to me, because I cannot match it. If you want to honor me, in and of yourself, give me all of _you_ —your honor, sure, but also your shame, your fears, your strengths, your heart. I want it all, and I want to give you all. All, or none. I will not give myself to a person who will not be an equal partner.”

Crowley felt very strange. His initial reaction was to agree immediately—whatever his angel wanted, his angel got. But a second, equally strong reaction was occurring, one that was very proud of what he’d accomplished in the jousting ring and wanted to continue on to the very top. He gritted his teeth. He clenched his fists. He did love Aziraphale, was in fact batty about him. But losing here, in one of the biggest tournaments in Europe, when he’d worked so hard to get there…

“I don’t…I don’t think I can,” Crowley croaked.

“Then I don’t think you love me,” Aziraphale said simply, and stepped around him. Crowley mouthed like a fish. Aziraphale walked out of the cathedral with his head held high. Crowley nearly tore his hair out in frustration and stalked out of the church like his feet were on fire, grinding his teeth all the way to the stands. He answered no questions about where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and sat on Bentley and waited for his first match with his mind in a whirl.

The first tilt was announced, Crowley galloped forward, and then sighed deeply and stopped. Bentley tossed her head and whinnied at him, but stayed put.

“What are you doing?” Adam asked in a high-pitched voice. Then Crowley lost track of things a bit when his opponent’s lance plowed into him, but when he came back to, Adam was still talking. “—blind?”

“Look,” Crowley growled, “Aziraphale said I should lose to prove my love, alright?”

“I don’t—what?” Brian frowned. “Why would he do that?”

“I might’ve…said I’d win the tournament for him,” Crowley mumbled.

“That’s so romantic, why would he be upset about that?” Newt cried. There was some screaming, and another lance broke across Crowley’s chest, and he righted himself with a groan. It was going to be a long day.

“I don’t know why, but I love him,” Crowley growled. “So. I’m losing.”

“Oh, I’d rather you were blind,” Adam said, and Crowley tuned out the despair and cursing around him. Up in the stands, a pale figure was pressed to a column and was watching Crowley intently, and Crowley watched him back and didn’t so much as curse when he passively took the beating of about six lances. Somewhere in there his arm dislocated, and Crowley felt the throbbing bruise that was now his entire torso starting to swell, but Crowley kept his eyes on Aziraphale and didn’t answer the further pleading and cajoling of his retinue.

“Withdraw,” Wensleydale begged as later, between Crowley’s matches, Crowley was in the middle of getting his arm popped back in socket as Brian determinedly cranked on the rack. “Lose that way, just don’t take any more punishment, actually it’s very painful to watch.”

“More painful to live through,” Crowley said through gritted teeth, and yelped as his shoulder crackled but didn’t reset.

“At least the armor’s proving itself,” Pepper said grimly, tightening up some gimlets that had come lose in the beating Crowley had let himself take. “Y’know, if you win all the rest of your matches from hereon out, you could probably still win, and we won’t lose all of our money.”

“Not my fault you lot made a bet with some Parisian tossers,” Crowley gasped. “Sorry ‘bout it, rotten timing, but—”

“Rotten timing?” Brian spat, and cranked the rack viciously. Crowley screamed, then sighed with relief when his arm popped back into place at last. “We’re going to lose all we’ve got, and you’ve got the nerve to blame rotten timing!”

“Sorry,” Crowley repeated, leaning back against a beam of their pavilion and taking deep breaths. Adam massaged his wounded shoulder and that felt better. Then Adam shook him again and Crowley realized what was happening as he opened his eyes and saw Anathema awkwardly waiting to be acknowledged. “Wh—oh. Hi.”

“I bring a message,” Anathema said. “Also some medicine.” She passed him a packet of herbs. “Boil those and make a paste to rub on your bruises, you’re going to need it.”

“Thanks,” Crowley grunted. “Is he not watching, then? Could have sworn he was, unless I’ve been making eyes at some other curly-headed noble this whole time—”

“He’s watching,” Anathema said with a sly smile that was entirely too much like Aziraphale’s for comfort. “He says if you love him, you won’t lose another match. In fact, he says, if you love him, you’ll win the whole thing.”

Crowley gazed at her, dumbfounded. Then he put his head in his hands and groaned, loudly and fiercely.

“There he is, the embodiment of love, your Venus,” Adam said by way of encouragement as Crowley, pasted and re-armored, got back up on his horse. Adam gestured up to the stands, where Aziraphale had been watching from the whole time, and he saw Aziraphale wave.

“Bastard,” Crowley muttered, and shut his visor.

He won, of course, because there was nothing left to do _but_ win. As Crowley laid into his opponents even more viciously then he did in Bordeaux and the rest of France, one thing crystallized in his mind, and he couldn’t even be mad about it:

Whatever Aziraphale wanted, he got, if Crowley had to kill himself to make it happen.

.

Crowley was finally drifting off into…not sleep, but a kind of pain-induced haze, once he’d gotten the lads to stop trying to rope him into their celebrations (winning an extra fifty gold was pretty good but not as good as a soft, horizontal surface, in his current opinion) in his bed in his private tent when he heard the rustling of the tent flap. He tensed until he saw the soft glow of candlelight shining off pale moonlight curls, made hazy by the gauzy drape he had as a room divider.

“We missed you at banquet, Sir Anthony,” his visitor said softly, tracing his fingers across the room divider. Crowley snorted.

“We?”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley held his breath for the moment Aziraphale brushed the divider aside. His patience was rewarded by the lovely spread of embarrassed flush across Aziraphale’s cheeks, coming into view as the barrier between them was surpassed. And—the loveliest thing of all—Crowley was treated to a violent mental implosion at the sight of Aziraphale’s attire. He was completely covered, of course, but—whoever had gifted Aziraphale the light, billowing shirt, turning faintly translucent in the dim light and showing Crowley a hint of the soft body beneath, deserved Crowley’s most reverent thanks. Said glorious shirt was tucked into breeches, as was only sensible, although sensible breeches were normally not so soft or so clinging, not on this particular person. The shoes were his normal fare, of course, but as the shirt stirred in a slight breeze and the collar peeped open, revealing a slit that wound down almost to his belly—Crowley swallowed a strangled gasp and did his very best to get control of himself. Aziraphale gave him a shy glance from under his thick pale lashes. Crowley felt suddenly hyperaware of his own exposed upper body, bandages notwithstanding. He almost wanted to pull his blanket up further, but desisted.

“I suppose it’s more accurate to say that I in particular missed you,” Aziraphale said softly. “You didn’t come to claim your prize.”

“My prize?” Crowley frowned, and could feel the heat in his face when Aziraphale idly played with his collar, twitching it open to show an absolutely heavenly slice of skin and chest hair, and _oh_ — “It—I—I’m not—” he coughed, then winced at the pain lancing through his ribs. “I don’t—I don’t deserve a prize.”

“If anyone does, you do, my dear,” Aziraphale said, approaching his bedside. Crowley shifted aside some, biting off a curse when his sore body complained at him. Aziraphale sat on the bed, his heat soaking into Crowley’s aching skin. Crowley reached out without thinking and tangled his fingers up in Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale reached for his other hand, too, which Crowley was all too willing to give.

“You’re not a prize, Aziraphale,” Crowley said quietly. “You’re not some _thing_ to be won or traded or given away. You’re a person who can think and act for himself. You know that, right?”

Aziraphale huffed, smiling wryly. “I do know. Thank you, my dear.” They sat in silence for a few moments. Crowley fished for something to say that wasn’t completely stupid.

“Tell me something,” Aziraphale said finally. “Anathema tells me your men call you Crowley. Is this true?”

Ice clawed at Crowley’s guts. He had a choice here: he could deflect and lie and keep hiding…or he could come clean and hope Aziraphale wouldn’t be disgusted with him. It was a little hard to think with those soft hands around his own, and his initial instinct was to protect himself—to curl up, to lash out, to cover his belly. But. The warmth in Aziraphale’s smile was so very comfortable, so easy to stretch out and relax in. Crowley knew this day would come eventually, even before he wrote the sappiest letter of his life.

“Yes,” Crowley said simply. Aziraphale studied him, then smiled, the sweetest smile Crowley had ever seen and ever would see.

“What would you like me to call you?” Aziraphale asked, shifting closer. Crowley swallowed hard.

“I…Crowley,” he said. “If. If you wouldn’t mind. It’s. I’m.”

“You needn’t tell me anything you don’t wish to,” Aziraphale said gently. “Your name and station make no difference to me.”

“My—my station,” Crowley said, and at Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows he huffed a laugh. “You’re too clever by half, angel.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers. “I think…I think I want to tell. It isn’t much to speak of, but…well. It’s me.”

Aziraphale turned to face him more fully, at rapt attention and giving Crowley’s hands a returning squeeze. Crowley took a deep breath.

“I was called Crawly, before I became a squire,” Crowley said slowly. “Anthony Antonio is an urchin’s dream, a hungry child’s fancy to distract from his aching empty belly. He became real a few months ago, but he’s…he’s a figment. A hero. Someone to keep an orphan alive while he scrambled for survival.”

Aziraphale nodded. “And…who is Crowley?”

Crowley considered the question carefully. “Who…do you want him to be?”

“Whoever you are,” Aziraphale replied, and lifted one of Crowley’s hands to his lips. “Whoever you wish to be. So long as…so long as I get to keep you.”

“You have me,” Crowley murmured as Aziraphale planted tender kisses on his bruised knuckles. “All of me, all I am—it’s all yours.” Crowley took a shuddering breath as Aziraphale’s attention turned to his wrist and inner arm, warm wet lips against sensitive skin. “I think I prefer Crowley. At least—at least when we’re alone.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said softly, half-closing his eyes as Crowley moved his other hand to cup Aziraphale’s cheek. “Then my Crowley you shall be.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed, and gently pulled Aziraphale in. The first gentle press of lips was heavenly enough that Crowley could have died right then. The repeated trading of sweet, slow kisses only fed the fire burning under his skin. Aziraphale trailed a hand down Crowley’s chest and at the sharp twinge of pain Crowley hissed, pulling back.

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale cried, then gasped when Crowley pulled down the blanket to observe his wounds. “You need a surgeon!”

“He said I’ll live,” Crowley grimaced. “Doesn’t much feel like it, though.”

“Oh, my dearest,” Aziraphale said, his hands taking Crowley’s again, and when Crowley looked up Aziraphale had a sad, guilty look on his face, looking alarmingly close to tears. “This is my doing. I was so foolish—you didn’t deserve this punishment for the sake of my pride, darling. And after I had the gall to lecture you about _your_ pride!”

“I’d take all of this, and more besides, if that’s what it takes to be with you, angel,” Crowley said gently, letting Aziraphale bring his hand to his face and press the palm to his lips.

“Still, I’d rather feel better if I apologized properly,” Aziraphale said, and the small smile on his face was one Crowley didn’t know but instantly adored—it was a tiny, impish thing, with glittering eyes and more than a hint of playfulness that boded very well for Crowley’s immediate future. That delicious, blessed shirt slipped off one of Aziraphale’s shoulders as he leaned forward and captured Crowley’s lips again.

“Well, I certainly won’t stop you,” Crowley said in between kisses. “I do hurt rather a lot.”

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” Aziraphale murmured, his touch considerably lighter, but Crowley wouldn’t have cared in this moment if he gave his ribs a good hard poke.

“You could never be too much,” Crowley murmured back, and let that be his last coherent sentence before letting Aziraphale carefully guide him down to the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have expounded upon the original scene in the tent just a skosh.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We diverge a bit from A Knight's Tale canon here; the emotional heart of the film has quite a bit to do with Heath Ledger's character and his father, and that's something I chose not to pursue in this fic, so it looks a little different. Hopefully still has some heft to it.

The ferry ride across the Channel was quiet.

“How long’s it been for you lot?” Pepper asked. “Only been a few years for me, maybe five.”

“Seven, for us,” Adam said, indicating himself, Brian, and Wensleydale.

“Twelve, for me,” Newt said softly. There was silence as everyone in the ferry looked to Crowley, and he sighed, doing some quick sums on his fingers.

“Maybe…maybe thirty,” Crowley said quietly. “Been back a couple of times with Sir Shadwell, but on the whole…been thirty years, since I lived here.”

Crowley ignored the awed silence that followed and stared out in the gloom, determined to be the first to see London Bridge when they got to it. Adam beat him to it, pointing out its shape as the sun started to rise over it, but that was alright.

There was a strong sense of nostalgia as Crowley paraded through the streets of London, and Cheapside in particular, as Sir Anthony Antonio. There were people chanting his name and people waving his colors, which was all terribly flattering, but somehow it was the little muddy urchins that did his heart in, the hungry-faced young things that reminded him so viscerally of himself Crowley had to stop looking at them.

When the competing knights were all lined up in the tiltyard and waving at the adoring crowd, Crowley was delighted to find he had the very good fortune of being situated in front of where Aziraphale was sitting, and thus got to smile and wave at his angel all he liked while pretending it was just at the crowd. Aziraphale returned his smiles and even winked, which very nearly stopped Crowley’s entire heart.

“Not bad-looking, is he?” an unwelcome voice asked, and Crowley looked beside him to see that somehow Count Gabriel had slipped up by him without his notice. Gabriel gave him a smile that might’ve been meant to be friendly and indicated Aziraphale with his head. “Has more money than sense, that one, but not terrible to look at now and then.”

“He’s bloody gorgeous,” Crowley somehow managed to say with a clenched jaw. “What are you doing here? Thought you got called off the circuit.”

“For a while,” Gabriel nodded. “Was off doing…let’s call it charity work, but the Queen called me back for the championship. And what a lineup!” Gabriel grinned. “You’ve been doing well since I last saw you. Seems like you’ve developed some of that potential we were talking about. Winning all kinds of tournament trophies…horses…maybe some hearts?”

“Do you always put them in that order?” Crowley huffed.

“Generally,” Gabriel shrugged. “I know, I should put horses first, they’re the most useful, but I have a soft spot for shiny things.” Gabriel’s smile somehow grew almost a little pitying. “You…do know there’s an understanding, right? Between my family and Aziraphale’s?”

“What kind of understanding?” Crowley frowned.

“Oh, long-standing betrothal,” Gabriel shrugged. “Nothing was ever made official, before his parents died, but they made it clear what they wanted before they passed. And I’m inclined to honor their memory. Aziraphale in and of himself is…alright…but the inheritance they left him…it’s really something else.”

“You act like that’s all he’s good for,” Crowley growled even as his ears rang. An understanding? That didn’t bode well at all. Not concrete, but by this point Crowley was no stranger to how ironclad other people’s expectations could be.

“Isn’t he?” Gabriel asked with a polite sort of smile. Crowley could have clocked his stupid handsome face.

“He’s not a target, not a prize, not a goal,” Crowley growled. “He’s…” He turned and really looked Gabriel in the eye, sitting up straight and tall. “He’s the arrow.”

“Right.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Arrow or target, it doesn’t make a difference. For better or worse, he’s mine, and I’m his. He might waste his time with you while I’m gone, but he knows how our story is going to end, and so do I.” Gabriel nudged his horse into walking away as the stadium began to clear out for the first tilts of the day.

Crowley ground his teeth, but when he looked up into the stands at Aziraphale, he forced himself to smile, because Aziraphale was looking…shaken, for lack of better words. Crowley was eager to get Bentley stabled so he could be up there with his angel. He lingered as long as he dared in the arena until Aziraphale gave him a weak smile back, and then Crowley went to take care of his things and make sure his crew had lodging for the night. Crowley had a feeling his own sleeping arrangements were settled.

To his surprise, Aziraphale met him at the stable just as Crowley was getting done brushing Bentley down.

“You lot get yourselves sorted for the night,” Crowley said to Newt and the lads, who were more or less standing around talking and now giggling at him as Aziraphale waved over his shoulder. “Yes, alright, you can take the mickey out tomorrow, now go.”

“Have a most excellent night, Sir Anthony Antonio,” Adam proclaimed grandly, and Crowley kicked at him as he scuttled off with the rest, laughing.

“Impertinent little sod,” Crowley said fondly, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Aziraphale took his arm. “Angel.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly, and a zing went up Crowley’s spine as Aziraphale leaned up and kissed him. This, Crowley could get used to. “I’ve a house in the city, you’re more than welcome to stay with me tonight.”

“As if I’d be anywhere else,” Crowley said, and let Aziraphale lead the way. They walked through Cheapside at a leisurely pace, and to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale didn’t look at all uneasy about that. “I was born here, you know.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale smiled. “Do you know where?”

“Nah,” Crowley shrugged, “there were so many of us, it was hard to keep track of who came from where before Mum passed. Not even sure if Mum was actually _my_ mum, we just all called her that.”

“It must have been hard,” Aziraphale said softly. “We should see about setting up something—a charity, maybe.”

“Charity,” Crowley shook his head. “It’s a lovely thought, angel, but nobody here in Cheapside has ever seen a penny from charities.”

“Well, we should see what we can do about it,” Aziraphale said resolutely, and Crowley, despite himself, actually believed that Aziraphale would make it happen. The walk to Aziraphale’s house was a long one, but that may have been because of all the taverns and eateries that Aziraphale was determined to visit on the way, showing Crowley his favorite spots in London. Eventually, when it was near dusk, they came to a well-built, finely decorated house set back a ways from the main road, not large but certainly not a hovel, either.

“This is me,” Aziraphale said, gesturing, and led Crowley into the house. It was warm inside, the servants seemingly already prepared to receive them with fires in all the fireplaces and a light meal laid out in the dining room, which Crowley was actually too full to indulge in given their multiple stops on the way.

“Angel,” Crowley said as he and Aziraphale lounged before one such fire on a comfortable rug with cushions thrown about, perfect for the kind of louche indulgence Crowley had become accustomed to, “what…what does it mean, that there’s an understanding between your family and Gabriel’s?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale winced, putting down his wine goblet and sitting up. “I wondered what you two were talking about.”

“How come you never told me before?” Crowley asked

“It…truly didn’t seem all that important, before,” Aziraphale frowned. “Yes, my parents and his parents wanted very much for us to marry, but when my parents died I made no offer and neither did he. It’s been a sort of deadlock since we were both of marriageable age, I suppose; everyone knows about the supposed understanding, and that was enough to keep suitors away from me, but I honestly don’t know what’s going on in Gabriel’s head. Some days he’s courtly and chivalrous because that’s what’s expected of a nobleman in his treatment of his betrothed, other days he would rather pretend I didn’t exist.”

“Do you…I mean,” Crowley swallowed hard, “n-no judgement, or hard feelings, or anything, but…do you want to marry him?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, with such firm conviction Crowley was nearly startled. Aziraphale reached out and grasped one of Crowley’s hands. “No, if anything, the most I feel towards him is gratitude, if only because…well, if only because my being single so long meant I was available when I finally met you.”

Crowley flushed and rubbed the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb. “Don’t give me something to actually feel charitable about towards Gabriel, it feels icky.”

“After twenty years, it’s the first time I’ve certainly felt anything quite this positive towards him, myself,” Aziraphale laughed. “I know he doesn’t much like me, he only thinks he should. So much of what Gabriel is comprised of is what he thinks is expected of him.” He sighed. “He…promised to win the Rouen tournament in my name when I turned up for it, if only because it’s the first time I’ve ever done so, but did he so much as give me the trophy? No, we’re much happier pretending the other doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not sure he’s got the memo yet,” Crowley mumbled. “I think he tried to frighten me away from you, earlier today.”

“Then Gabriel will learn that I am my own man,” Aziraphale said sternly. “And he is his own. Neither of us needs to feel beholden to the other, we can simply part ways as…as indifferent acquaintances.”

“He has no idea what he’s missing, angel,” Crowley said seriously, and brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles and watch Aziraphale blush. Kissing the knuckles led to kissing the fingertips, and the palm, and before Crowley knew it he had lost quite a bit of time in admiring his pretty angel, though he couldn’t consider it anything other than well-spent.

“I think,” Crowley mumbled later, pressed skin to skin with Aziraphale under quite a few thick blankets and sighing as Aziraphale laid sloppy kisses against his shoulder, “that after this, I’d like to marry you myself, if you’re amenable.”

Aziraphale chuckled and held him tighter. “As you say, darling,” he murmured.

“Gonna make a big to-do of it,” Crowley said, nuzzling into Aziraphale just to make him laugh. “Gonna—gonna sweep the tournament, then climb the stands and kiss you silly. Gonna yell at the whole stadium that this angel, this radiant, beautiful man, is going to be my husband, and they all missed out, and they can kiss my—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale laughed.

“Foot, I was going to say foot,” Crowley grinned. “But…seriously, though, marry me?”

“Seriously, if you walk into the stadium tomorrow with your head held high, no matter what happens, that will be enough for me,” Aziraphale smiled, and kissed Crowley soft and slow. Crowley pulled back after a few minutes.

“So, is that a yes, or—”

“Yes!” Aziraphale laughed, and made further interesting noises as Crowley pinned him down and kissed him within an inch of his life.

.

Gabriel frowned into his goblet. Sir Anthony hadn’t come to banquet, and neither had Aziraphale, and that left him with a bad taste in his mouth he couldn’t identify.

“What’s got you so sullen, then?” Lord Beelzebub, his occasional drinking buddy during these kinds of events when other entertainment failed to catch his attention, slid into the seat beside his and grabbed his drink. “Thought you’d be happy about being out of the muck with the rest of your army.”

“Oh, I am,” Gabriel nodded, letting Beelzebub have his drink, “it’s just…” he sighed, and Beelzebub rolled their eyes.

“Out with it, then, pigeon, or I’ll leave.”

“How would you beat him?” Gabriel asked, and at Beelzebub’s blank look he rolled his eyes. “Anthony Antonio. He’s been sweeping all the tournaments on the continent since I got ordered away from them, and it’s…to be frank, it’s driving me a little insane, that he’s risen so quickly in the ranks. I even heard Duke Michael praising him, and she never praises anyone.”

“How would I beat him?” Beelzebub repeated, swirling the wine in the goblet. They grinned. “With a stick while he slept.”

“With a—oh, I see, that’s clever,” Gabriel smiled, and Beelzebub gave a little bow. “I don’t see how that’s going to help me win the tournament, though.”

“If you’re so worried about winning, pigeon,” Beelzebub rolled their eyes, “and you’re sure you can’t do it on a horse with a lance like usual, then you either have to cheat, or you have to hit him where it hurts outside the arena.”

“Huh.” Gabriel leaned his head on his hand. “Do you have any ideas?”

“I have one,” Beelzebub nodded. “You’ll owe me, though.”

“Anything,” Gabriel agreed. “I have to win this one.”

Beelzebub lifted an eyebrow. “Really? Anything? Why is this tournament so important?”

Gabriel frowned at them. “Because…because it is, okay? Ever since he got here, he’s been swanning around on his high horse, acting like he’s better than everyone else, and I’m sick of it.”

“Are you sick of it? Or are you jealous?” Beelzebub grinned. “Don’t tell me, after all this time, you actually like Aziraphale now and are peeved he’s stealing your not-really-fiancé away.”

“No,” Gabriel shook his head. “Not exactly. I don’t like Aziraphale, not really, but…Sir Anthony Antonio’s messing with my stuff, so I want to mess with him.”

“Hm. Petty drama,” Beelzebub said, taking a long swig of wine. Gabriel fussed a little with his tunic but didn’t contradict them. “Give me a few hours, I’m sure I can dig something up.”

“You’re the best, Bee,” Gabriel smiled, and Beelzebub scowled at him.

“Don’t call me that,” Beelzebub muttered, and stood. “I’m off. Lots to do, if you’re going to really owe me that colossal favor.”

“Yeah, sure,” Gabriel rolled his eyes, and was perfectly content for the rest of the night to sip his new goblet of wine and watch the rest of the banquet party itself sick. If there was one thing he trusted Beelzebub to do, it was to dig up dirt on people who should never have had dirt in the first place, and Gabriel was quite looking forward to putting Anthony Antonio—if that was his real name, even—in his place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I really like the "kiss my--" *timely interruption* joke, it's also in the Ever After AU :P


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit where it gets bad, then worse, and then better. Tally ho!

Crowley rose earlier than Aziraphale just to watch him sleep for a moment more; then he kissed his forehead and felt Aziraphale stir awake a little.

“’s it time for you to go?” Aziraphale mumbled sleepily.

“It is,” Crowley nodded, and kissed Aziraphale properly. “I’ll look for you in the stands, love.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Aziraphale promised, snuggling back into the blankets. “Love you.”

Crowley could hardly bear to leave him, but his second great love called.

Crowley was the first one to the stables, so he got mostly armored up by himself and waited on itchy feet for the rest to arrive. Newt showed up with Brian and Wensleydale in tow, followed by Pepper. Together the four of them managed to get Crowley in the rest of his armor, not saying much in the morning gloom but excitement building behind Crowley’s ribs nonetheless.

“It’s going to be a good day, I can feel it,” Crowley said, bouncing from foot to foot as Brian and Wensleydale checked Bentley over. “Perfect day for jousting, in my opinion.”

“Any day that isn’t raining or unbearably hot is a good day for jousting,” Pepper countered, and Crowley just smiled.

“Guys,” Adam said from the doorway of the stables, and Crowley turned, beaming.

“There you are, took you long enough.”

“Has somebody died?” Newt asked.

Adam, who had a strange look on his face, nodded. “Sir Anthony Antonio.”

“Yes?” Crowley blinked. “What? I’m right here.”

“I don’t know how he did it, but Gabriel…he said he’s found your brothers,” Adam said, and Crowley frowned. “Or, at least two people claiming they knew you as Crawly, growing up in the streets in London. They asked me for your patents, and they’ve already discovered at least one of the names Newt used is a fake.”

“Frankly, I’m surprised they didn’t discover that earlier,” Pepper stage-whispered, and Crowley gritted his teeth.

“But…but I face Gabriel in less than an hour,” Crowley said, knowing he sounded desperate but not caring.

“No, you forfeit,” Adam countered. “They already marked it down.”

“They can arrest your baggage, not you,” Brian said resolutely, and started stripping Bentley out of her livery and armor.

“What? No!” Crowley yelped, yanking his arm away from Pepper, who had begun to do the same thing with him. “No, I—I have to be there, I have to ride in, I’m a knight!”

“A knight in your heart, yeah,” Newt said heavily, “but not on paper, and paper’s all that matters to them.”

“If we run, we can still get away clean, and nobody has to know,” Adam said, and Crowley gritted his teeth.

“Fine,” he said. “You lot go. I’m staying. I can’t run from this.”

“Yes, you can!” Pepper argued. “All you have to do is come on!”

“No, I—” Crowley growled in his throat and swore. “No. If I don’t show up, then I’ve abandoned Aziraphale, and I can’t do that. I won’t.” He looked at the wide, pale faces of the lads, of Pepper, of Newt, and sighed. “I’ll try to buy you lot some time, but if this is where the road ends, then it ends. I made a promise, and I’m going to keep it.”

“You are stubborn and there are a thousand ways we could do this better,” Pepper said.

“Maybe,” Crowley shrugged, and swung up on Bentley’s back. “Thanks for the armor again, Pepper, it’s been brilliant getting to wear it.”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Pepper growled, and squared her shoulders. “I’m not leaving you to face that by yourself.”

“No, actually, I’m not, either,” Wensleydale said.

“I—I’ll find Anathema,” Newt said, backing away. “Surely she can think of something, she and Aziraphale both.”

“Go on, then,” Crowley said, and Newt ran, and whether Newt was running away or running towards help, it didn’t much matter anyway. “Brian? Adam? You coming, or going?”

“Coming, obviously,” Brian nodded. “Gone with you this far, would be a shame to stop.”

“We started this together, and we’ll end it together,” Adam nodded, and put his hand on Crowley’s knee. Crowley smiled at him and wished it didn’t feel so strained.

Together, the five of them walked out of the stables and towards the arena, where Crowley could see two grown men whom Crowley hadn’t seen since he was very small but would be able to pick out of a crowd anywhere—Hastur and Ligur, two older boys who had given him no end of trouble before Crowley left London. They looked haggard and starved but their eyes gleamed with vindictive light.

“There he is,” Hastur croaked. “Good old Crawly, always making believe he’s a knight.”

“End of the line, Crawly, the guard’s ‘re coming for you,” Ligur cackled.

Crowley didn’t dignify their taunts with a response, riding into the arena with his head held high.

The arena was packed already, and Crowley scanned the stands frantically until he saw the pale, curly head of Aziraphale, standing at a pillar with a concerned look on his face. He saw Crowley and flashed him a brilliant smile. Crowley smiled back and blew him a kiss.

The guards who were occupying the tiltyard marched up, and the officiant with them cleared his throat. “You will remove yourself from this place of honor,” he said with a whiny voice.

“I’m here to compete,” Crowley said quietly, already readying himself to get off of Bentley’s back just so he wasn’t forced from her and cause her to panic.

“You are here to be arrested,” the officiant sneered, and motioned the guards forward. Crowley let himself be taken without complaint, only looking up into the stands to find Aziraphale and shoot him a reassuring smile. Aziraphale did not look reassured. He covered his mouth with his hands, then looked to where Gabriel was standing in the arena looking proud of himself and glared. Crowley kept his eyes on his face for as long as he could, hoping Aziraphale could feel how he was beaming love in his gaze even as he was dragged from the arena by the guards.

.

Crowley had long lost track of time when someone was let into his cell. He had taken to staring up through the high, narrow window at the slip of sky he could see, and didn’t bother to look when the heavy footfalls reached him. It wasn’t Aziraphale and thus didn’t matter.

He was a bit surprised, however, to find Gabriel in his cell, looking at him with a pleased grin and predatory eyes.

“He who grasps for the stars often stumbles on a single straw,” Gabriel said, and Crowley resisted the urge to spit in his face, but only just. He looked back up at his window and said nothing.

“I told you dreaming all the time was bad for you, and here we are,” Gabriel continued. Crowley clenched his jaw but said nothing. “You’ve been weighed…”

Crowley did not expect the hard punch to his newly-healed ribs and grunted.

“You’ve been measured…”

The blow to the other side of his ribs was a little more expected but still painful.

“And you’ve been found wanting.” This time a hit to his stomach, doubling him over. Gabriel put a hand on the beam laid across Crowley’s shoulders, to which his wrists were bound, and forced him upright, and Crowley wheezed for breath but still looked above Gabriel’s head, up towards the sky.

Whatever response Gabriel had been hoping for, he didn’t get it, because he hit Crowley in the stomach again and this time let him stumble to the ground, stomping from his cell and slamming the iron door behind him. Crowley let himself catch his breath, then sighed. Maybe Aziraphale had thought Gabriel above such petty things, but Crowley felt a little vindicated that his read of the man was correct. And further, that Gabriel had been intimidated by him enough to destroy him outside of the arena like this. It was a paltry comfort but Crowley clung to it anyway.

He wished his angel were here.

.

After a night in the cells, Crowley was led to the stocks, where a huge crowd had already gathered to see their fallen hero. He stood there, feeling his limbs go numb after a while, occasionally weathering garbage being thrown at him and adventurous children coming forward to box his ears, and he said nothing.

“Alright there, Crowley?” he heard someone ask, and craned his head at an awkward angle to blink up at Adam.

“What…what are you doing here?” Crowley croaked.

“Our bond got paid,” Adam shrugged, as he and Brian and Wensleydale and Pepper and even Newt formed a circle around him. Pepper had a couple of her hammers in her hands, and Brian looked ready to scrap with his bare hands. “I think they tried to pay yours, too, but the judge wouldn’t let them, for some reason.”

“Who?” Crowley croaked.

“Who else? Anathema and Aziraphale,” Newt smiled at him. Crowley thought his face might have tried to smile back but it felt foreign.

“You should let them have me,” Crowley mumbled. “It’ll just be bad if you get caught in the crossfire.”

“But you’re not okay with that,” Brian said simply. “So it’s not alright.”

“Actually, I’m not okay with that, either,” Wensleydale said, and held up his fists like Brian. The crowd did not appear to take kindly to this show of defense, and when Adam tried to speak to them like he did as Sir Anthony’s herald, they roared loudly enough to drown him out, frothing like angry waves.

Abruptly, the crowd fell silent, and Crowley heard Adam mutter a bitten-off oath. He craned his head again, and blinked when he caught sight of a woman in an expansive red dress.

The woman approached, flanked by two guards, and Crowley realized who he was looking at—Queen Francis of England was certainly a sight to behold, her silver hair bound back by a crown, her expression one of solid authority. She approached Crowley and knelt by him, and he heard her sad little chuckle.

“What a pair we make,” Francis said softly. “Both of us trying to hide who we are…both of us unable to do so.”

Crowley didn’t know what to say to that.

Francis looked around, then back to Crowley. “Your men love you,” Francis said simply. “If I knew nothing else about you, that would be enough for me. But,” she smiled, “you also tilt when you should withdraw, and that is knightly, too.”

“Or just—bullheaded stubborn,” Crowley croaked, and Francis laughed.

“Your angel sends his regards,” Francis said quietly. “You have him to thank for what’s about to happen.”

Crowley swallowed hard, his throat hitting the stocks, and tried not to do something embarrassing like blubber in the streets as Queen Francis drew herself up.

“By the power vested in me by the Lord God,” Queen Francis said imperiously, “and by all these witnesses here, I charge what has been done here an injustice. Release this man at once.”

There was a scramble somewhere to Crowley’s right as the stocks were unlocked and lifted, and he found himself being helped upright by Pepper and Brian, who supported his weight when Crowley found he couldn’t, after so long in the stocks and with the beam the day before.

“If I could repay the kindness you once showed me,” Queen Francis smiled when Crowley was more or less standing in front of her, “take a knee.”

Crowley blinked. He looked over at Adam, just to confirm that he’d heard correctly, and Adam nodded. He looked up at Queen Francis and gulped at her knowing smile, and with some assistance did as she asked. Queen Francis drew a sword held by one of her guards, and held it aloft.

“This is my word and my law,” Queen Francis said. “Tireless work from a master scholar in my circle has uncovered that this man is descended from an ancient royal line, and so it is with the authority of the Kingdom of Great Britain that I dub thee,” Queen Francis smiled as she touched the sword tip from Crowley’s shoulder to shoulder and shoulder again, “Sir Crowley.”

The crowd exploded with cheers, and Crowley was fairly certain his heart did, as well. Francis returned the sword and beamed at him.

“Descended from…what?” he murmured.

“Or, close enough, anyway,” she winked. “Are you fit to compete?”

Crowley felt strength flooding his numb limbs, out of spite if for no other reason. “Oh, I’m fit,” Crowley said determinedly.

“I shall have your opponent informed of it,” Queen Francis nodded, and she held out a hand, which Crowley took. She helped him to his feet, and though Crowley wobbled, he stood.

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Crowley murmured, and let himself be rushed off by his retinue, his head spinning but ultimately centering around a rock-solid core that was comprised of the following facts: he was a knight in truth now, he had Aziraphale to thank for it, and he was going to beat Gabriel if it was the last thing he ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to change some details from the film but hopefully it makes sense?


	11. Chapter 11

Within a couple hours Crowley found himself at the starting point of the arena again, scanning the stands, which were absent of both Queen Francis and Aziraphale. Crowley was a little down about that, but if Aziraphale had been working so hard to get his friends—and, it turned out, Crowley himself—out of jail, he deserved the rest. He looked across the tiltyard to Gabriel, who looked peeved and a little sick. Crowley noticed he was using different lances than he had before. Odd.

His concentration on the lances was torn away as Adam called out to him. “Crowley! Crowley, her Majesty’s here—and so’s your angel!”

Crowley eagerly ripped off his helmet and looked up into the stands, where, sure enough, the Queen of England herself was seated in the seat of honor, and right next to her, clutching Anathema’s hand, Aziraphale was seated. He waved, and Crowley waved back and blew about a half-dozen rapid-fire kisses his way. Aziraphale’s blush could be seen all the way from here, and Crowley beamed at him. There. Now he could concentrate properly.

When at last the flag dropped, Crowley kicked Bentley to a gallop eagerly, already aiming for Gabriel’s heart with his lance. Gabriel appeared to have the same idea, but when Gabriel’s lance connected with Crowley’s shoulder, there was a white-hot burst of pain that had never happened during a joust before, and Crowley cried out in agony. He looked down at himself and was very surprised to see half a lance sticking out of him, the point dug deeply into his lance-carrying shoulder and sending jolts of pain up and down his arm. Bentley was prancing nervously as he gasped for breath, eyes glued to the shaft of wood stuck in him.

“Oh,” Crowley heard Newt say, “oh, no, I—I’ll get the surgeon—”

“Newt,” Crowley rasped, “you’re the surgeon now.”

Newt looked at him with wide, terrified eyes, but grasped his shoulder with one hand and the lance with the other. After a count of three, Newt pulled the lance free, and Crowley bit out a sharp yelp of pain as it did. He could feel something still in the wound, but was more preoccupied with telling Pepper to walk Bentley back to start before he forfeited again.

“He’s tipped it,” Pepper said, her voice thick with disgust. “The tip must still be in there—Crowley, you might have to—”

“Just—lance,” Crowley ground out, and barely got the lance in his hand before the flag dropped again. He rode out with much less vigor than before, and then made the fatal mistake of looking at the stands to where Aziraphale was on his feet and watching with an ashen face, instead of at his opponent, who was aiming for his chest again. Somewhere between start and the impact of Gabriel’s (mercifully blunted) lance, Crowley’s own lance had slipped from his nerveless fingers, and he found himself half-laid back across Bentley’s hindquarters, struggling to breathe.

“Pepper,” he wheezed, “I can’t—Pepper, I can’t breathe, get it off, I can’t—”

He gasped for breath when the armor finally came off, and when Pepper tried to put it back on, Crowley flinched. “I can’t. I can’t breathe with it on.”

“You need more padding,” Pepper argued. “Anything. Gabriel’s going to kill you if he hits you again.”

“Mm.” Crowley rotated his injured shoulder and bit off some foul oaths. “Lance.” Brian, looking trepidatious, handed it to him, and Crowley screamed. “I can’t grip it,” he snapped, shaking his hand and swearing. Then an idea occurred. “Lash it to my arm.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Brian gaped.

“Lash it to my arm,” Crowley repeated. “Nothing else for it, just do it, or we lose.”

Brian looked to Wensleydale, who looked at Pepper, who glared at Crowley and sighed. “Do it,” she said, and as they fetched some rope to tie the lance to Crowley’s shaking arm, Crowley realized Adam had disappeared. Where he had disappeared off to became obvious as Adam’s strong voice echoed from the stands.

“Good people!” he cried from the nobles’ seating, standing ostentatiously with his arms raised. “I missed my introduction!”

The people cheered, and the man with the flag nodded and retreated to let Adam do his thing. Crowley looked up at Adam and nodded, and Adam grinned.

“But please,” Adam said, “please, I pray you, hear it now.” He idly sauntered along the wood railing of the upper deck of the stands, stopping in front of the Queen herself and looking cheeky. “I’m going to talk straight with you, because days like today are far too rare to cheapen with the usual heavy-handed gilding I like to bring you. And so, with no ado whatsoever,” Adam leaned against a beam and gestured grandly, “here he is, a man of the people, born a stone’s throw from this stadium and here before you now: the one! The only! I give you: Sir Crowley!”

The crowd exploded with cheers, and Crowley wasn’t sure if it was sweat or tears in his eyes but either way he rubbed them to make them less blurry.

“You hear that?” Brian said. “Sir Crowley. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Crowley croaked. “Yeah, it really does.”

“Take care not to kill yourself,” Newt said. “Anathema says there’s a wedding to plan after this.”

“Yeah. Right. Yeah,” Crowley said, shaking his head and pushing the hair from his face. He stared Count Gabriel down from across the arena, taking deep breaths, steeling himself against the fire in his shoulder and the tremble in his arm.

The flag dropped.

Crowley saw the next few moments as if in slow-motion:

He rode towards Gabriel, and Gabriel towards him.

Crowley let all of his emotions fill him—his fury over Gabriel’s underhanded tactics, his love for Aziraphale, his pride in his crew, his wild joy in Bentley’s speed—

And with a wordless shout, Crowley drove his lance home, knocking Gabriel’s out of the way and propelling Gabriel himself out of his saddle.

Gabriel tumbled ears over teakettle off the back of his horse amidst a shower of splinters.

The stadium was silent for a moment.

.

Gabriel was having a moment, himself.

It seemed to him that he was suspended in space, staring up at the cloudless blue sky, a wordless shout ringing in his ears, and as he looked up, he realized those peasants Sir Anthony (or whatever his name actually was) employed were looking down at him and smiling.

“You have been weighed,” Brian said.

“You have been measured,” Wensleydale added.

“And you absolutely,” Pepper continued.

“Have been found wanting,” Adam finished.

“Bit pathetic, really,” Newt said.

“Would have expected better.” This was said by Aziraphale’s retainer, Anathema, who stood by Newt and grinned down at him with a few more teeth than necessary.

Then, Sir Crowley stood over him and smiled, and it was a perfectly friendly smile. “Welcome to the new world,” he said. “Time to make your own choices. God save you, if it is right that She should do so.” He winked, and the vision dissipated.

What on earth did that mean? Gabriel contemplated this as dirt filled his helmet and his ears rang with the sound of his armor hitting the ground.

.

The arena exploded with cheers.

Crowley could hardly stand still long enough to get the lance off his arm as he realized that not only had he won, Gabriel motionless with shock in the dirt, but Aziraphale was running down the stands towards him, and Crowley, exhausted from his days in prison and the stocks and with a piece of metal still stuck in his shoulder, leaped off Bentley, ran several paces, leaped the fence of the tiltyard, caught Aziraphale in his arms, and kissed him like the world was ending.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured into his mouth, “Crowley, darling, you were magnificent.”

“Wouldn’t be here without you,” Crowley mumbled back. “Thank you, angel. Changed my stars, you did.”

“Least I could do,” Aziraphale sighed, “for my future husband. Would do so much more for you if I could.”

Crowley kissed him and kissed him and if Aziraphale allowed it, would spend the rest of their lives together kissing him as often as humanly possible.

The rest, as they say, is history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue ACDC's You Shook Me All Night Long*
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Now go watch the film, it's a masterpiece XD


End file.
